


Hold On To Your Heart

by lyannas (crossfirehurricane)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragons, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Forced Marriage, Hate to Love, Internal Conflict, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, am i missing something?, okay that's enough for now, that one's important, this is self indulgent you can love it or leave it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-15 22:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 123,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/lyannas
Summary: Rhaegar Targaryen and his siblings have conquered the North with fire and blood. Lyanna Stark is left with no choice but to submit to save her family name-- even if it means she must wed their bastard brother Arthur Dayne.(self-indulgent as HELL)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have another WIP-- but fear not, I think I can be consist with both (I managed it with A Thousand Silhouettes, at least).
> 
> This fic is honestly mostly for me because I had this idea in my head and couldn't get it out. I've meddled with the ages quite a bit and the premise probably has some holes in it. Oh well.
> 
> Enjoy!

__

_Why? Why did you take them all?_ Lyanna kept asking the heart tree this question, begged the old gods for an answer that would never come. _Could you not have left me just one brother? Even if he was crippled and needed me for the rest of his life-- why didn’t you leave me one?_

She knew it was pointless to plead for a life lost. Had she not been so aggrieved, she would have cursed Brandon instead, cursed him for fighting instead of kneeling. What chance did they ever stand against three dragons? Yet Brandon insisted on fighting-- _I’d rather die fighting than live on my knees,_ he had said, and Lyanna had wept over those words ever since.

They were gone, all of them. Brandon gone, Ned gone, Benjen gone. Benjen had only been six-and-ten, but he had insisted on joining the battle. “I’m a northman too,” he said. “I should stand and fight with the rest.” Well, forty thousand northmen walked into that battle and ten thousand had survived, the only ones who thought to surrender. Those were the numbers Maester Luwin had relayed to her. The battle took place only a few days prior; any day now, the dragons would be on her doorstep, and she would have to answer.

“Your grace?” A kindly man’s voice called from behind her. Lyanna turned in her kneeling position to look back at her caller. “Rhaegar Targaryen has arrived in the winter town.” Maester Luwin appeared as grave as she felt. The maester had not been in Winterfell long, but he felt keenly with House Stark. She did not doubt that he wept as she did when the terrible news had first arrived.

Lyanna nodded. As she rose, she wiped the tears from her eyes. She knew what she must do, and direwolves do not weep.

Her horse was saddled already by the time she reached the courtyard. It was filled with so many people-- refugees, the elderly, women, children, all of those who could not fight. They eyed her expectantly. What did they want her to say? Would could she say?

Just before she pulled herself onto the saddle, a hand grabs her arm. She turned to look into the lined faced of the aged Lord Karstark, nearly blind in both eyes.

“We will defend Winterfell, your grace, to the last man, woman, and child,” he said in his strong, proud voice. “You do not have to kneel to your brothers’ killers.”

Lyanna covered his arthritic hand with her slim one. Lord Karstark had lost every last one of his sons in battle. Stark and Karstark were one blood, he had reminded her. They would die together as they lived together. And so they did. “I know, my lord, but I want no more bloodshed,” she said softly. “We have lost enough, and it is my duty to protect you all. Let us find peace through a means that is not death.”

The old man nodded grimly and let her go. A different pair of hands helped onto her horse, the hands of Maege Mormont, who had stayed behind in Winterfell for the sake of her young daughters. Her eldest, Dacey, only six-and-ten, had died on the field with Brandon. The proud woman looked at her now with a glimmer in her eye. They all understood what she must do. They did not hold it against her.

The gates of Winterfell opened, and Lyanna rode forth alone. The dragons and their masters were in sight of Winterfell. It would not have taken very long at all to walk to them, but riding gave her courage. It gave her time to clear her head and steel her heart. Her people needed her to be strong, even in submission. She needed to be proud. She stopped about thirty paces before them, and dismounted.

She knew their names, even those of the dragons, though she had never laid eyes on them before. There was Daenerys Targaryen, the youngest of the three, and younger than her at six-and-ten. She was beautiful in black leather, silver hair in a plait down the center of her back, a crown of Valyrian steel on her fair head. Her dragon was named Vhagar, a beast with black scales and crimson eyes. Viserys Targaryen was on the other side of her, his silver hair tied back as he sported a cruel smirk. His dragon was named Meraxes, and it had scales the same color as its master’s hair, and black eyes.

Then there was the conqueror in the middle: Rhaegar Targaryen. Tall, handsome, and dressed in black armor with rubies in the shape of a three-headed dragon on the breastplate. He wore his long silver hair loose, and was crowned by a simple Valyrian steel circlet encrusted with rubies. His dragon was called Balerion. It was the largest of the three, with green scales and bronze eyes. All three dragons loomed behind their masters, their eyes focused on her with deadly intent. A direwolf would not sate their appetites, but they would eat her all the same.

Yet as Lyanna looked upon these beasts for the first time, she felt no fear. There was nothing these purple-eyed Targaryens and their fire-breathing monsters could do to her that would hurt more than what they had already done. Her brothers were gone from this world forever. She was alone. She could not be more alone. Even death would feel more full.

Lyanna walked towards them, a single woman dressed in a simple black gown, wrapped up in a white cloak with a direwolf stitched onto it. That was her only armor-- that, and the crown upon her head.

She stopped right before Rhaegar and looked into his purple eyes to search for something. Mercy, perhaps, or remorse. Yet his eyes revealed nothing but a strange sort of melancholy, a melancholy that was not for her. There was nothing left to do, and nothing left to say.

Lyanna Stark removed her crown and knelt.

She placed it at his feet, this ancient crown of iron, and tried not to weep anew. It had belonged to the Starks for thousands of years, and had been stolen from her in under a week.

“The North offers its surrender,” she said aloud, her voice strong enough to make her brothers proud.

“I accept its surrender,” Rhaegar said. His voice was clear and calm, almost musical. She hated it already. “Rise, Lyanna Stark.”

It stung not to be called queen, but she swallowed her useless pride for now. Pride would win her no concessions. But even so, she did not take Rhaegar’s hand when it was offered, and rose gracefully by herself.

“I regret the loss of life that accompanies this surrender,” the king said, not unkindly. Lyanna set her jaw, unwilling to believe he regretted it at all. “Your brothers fought valiantly-- but they should have kneeled.”

 _Never speak of my brothers to me,_ she wanted to say. Instead she holds her tongue.

“Nevertheless, I am not without mercy.” Lyanna nearly spit at his words. “Show me to your solar, and let us discuss the future of the North together.”

Parting with a glare, Lyanna returned to her horse and led the way back to Winterfell. Upon Rhaegar’s arrival those gathered in the courtyard remained standing tall, refusing to kneel. None of the dragon masters commented on this, but instead followed her into the solar, where Maester Luwin and her brother’s steward, Lord Beron Poole, stood in wait. Lyanna had difficulty calling this solar or any of Brandon’s men her own; it had only been three days. She didn’t have the time to get used to it. She feared she never would. _I was not raised to rule Winterfell. It is not my right._ She had no choice now. Now, she must rule, for as long as these Targaryens would allow her.

Lyanna stood off to the side as each dragon master took a chair. Then a fourth man entered, one that she did not know. He resembled them only faintly-- he was tall, with blond hair so dark it was almost brown, and violet eyes. He had darker skin, though, a bronze color where theirs was fair, and was broad and muscular while they were slim and lean. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and he wore his arm in a sling with a bloodied bandage at his shoulder. If the Targaryens were the sun, he was the moon hidden behind clouds. He did not burn nearly as bright. Yet he took a chair as well, comfortable among them.

Lyanna noted that they left the lord’s chair behind the desk for her. An empty courtesy. She lowered herself into it, and awaited their sentence.

“I have not spent very long in your country, Lyanna Stark, but I quickly came to realize a few things about your northmen,” Rhaegar began leaning forward. He appeared comfortable in his seat, when Lyanna wished him nothing but pain. “Foremost amongst my observations, is that they are as fierce as they are loyal.”

He was not wrong, but she would not open her mouth to agree.

“In fact, I am certain that if you had commanded it, those men, women, and children in the courtyard would have gladly defended this castle to their deaths. Am I wrong?”

“You are not,” Lyanna replied. Her people would never betray her.

“And how not?” Rhaegar continued, as if he had never asked her a question at all. “Starks have been their kings for thousands of years. Your forebears have ruled them in such a way that they have made these hard men love them. Despite how much fire was rained down upon them at the Trident, not one man retreated until all three Starks fell. Bravery and loyalty without compare.”

It makes Lyanna proud to hear it as much as it makes her sorrowful. _No one should have had to die._

“I lost many men myself in this battle. Far more than I expected.” Rhaegar appeared grim as he reported this. “Tell me, what do you think would happen if I executed you?”

Lyanna did not let her alarm show. “The whole North would rise up,” she said, confident in her answer. “They would not let you know rest until you have killed them all.”

“That was the conclusion my siblings and I had reached as well. Tell me, why didn’t your brother kneel? Did he not hear of the other kingdoms’ fates?”

Lyanna set her jaw. “He did.”

“We conquered them all.”

“No, not all,” Lyanna said flatly. “You did not conquer Dorne.”

Brandon had taken heart in Dorne’s tale of defiance; Rhaegar, on the other hand, darkened. _That smarts you, doesn’t it?_

“We are not finished with Dorne,” he said, his voice betraying no emotions. “But we were prepared for the North, as you have seen.” He smiled a melancholy smile. “Yet as I said before, Lyanna Stark, I am not without mercy.” He straightened in his chair. “Here are the terms I offer you. You will remain in Winterfell, but not as a queen. This kingdom belongs to me now.” _Never. Never._ “You will receive the same terms as the other houses who bent the knee: you will give up your queenship, and remain Lyanna Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North.”

 _Warden? So I will still rule?_ Lyanna chanced a glance at Maester Luwin. He gave her a single solemn nod. If he felt comfortable enough to speak, he would tell her these were good terms. She would keep everything but her title. Just as well-- it was leagues better than losing the North.

“However,” he said, and Lyanna took pause in her relief, “I will keep a host of my men amongst you; no doubt the North has many widows now, and I have many single men.” Lyanna seethed silently at this. No northern woman would willingly marry a southerner. They were welcome to try, though. “You yourself are unwed, aren’t you my lady?”

Lyanna blinked. “I am.”

“‘I am, _your grace’_ ,” the one named Viserys barked suddenly. His lips were curled into a cruel grimace. “You are not speaking to your equal.”

“It’s alright, Viserys. I am certain she will learn in time.” Rhaegar’s lips quirked into a smile. “How old are you?”

“Eight-and-ten,” Lyanna answered with a mark of hesitation.

“Your grace,” Viserys hissed.

“I thought I had lost that title?” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could think them through. She did not regret them, especially not as Viserys’s pale face turned an angry, blotchy red.

Rhaegar, to her surprise, laughed. “And she is as witty as she is young,” he said with far too much contentment. “There is one final thing. For my terms to stand, you must marry my half-brother, Arthur Dayne.”

Lyanna’s blood ran cold. “Half-brother?” She asked, blindsided.

“Me, my lady,” the darkest of the four said. Then it occurred to Lyanna who this was-- this was their bastard brother, the one they said was as terrible as any dragon on a field with his sword. They said he wielded a sword made of starlight and could not be killed. Lyanna doubted that. Any man could be killed.

 _They want to wed me to a bastard._ It was more than just a way for them to exert power over the North-- it was a humiliation. They wished to hurt her pride. Lyanna’s blood boiled with rage, but she contained it despite how fervently she wished to climb over the desk and rip Rhaegar Targaryen’s throat out with her teeth.

“Of course, your children will be Starks in name,” Rhaegar said, seemingly oblivious to her shift in mood. “But they will have our blood.”

In different company, Lyanna would have retched. Under different circumstances, she would have outright refused. Yet, what could she do? What could she say? Lyanna chanced the question anyways.

“What if I do not agree to your terms?” She asked in as cool a voice as she could manage. She felt Maester Luwin’s gentle hand on her shoulder. Perhaps he saw how the back of her neck had turned crimson.

Rhaegar smiled a somber smile. “My lady, you cannot refuse. Unless you prefer your execution, and for every corner of the North to be filled with fire.”

 _He would sooner burn it all down than let us be free,_ she realized. She looked again to Luwin, and then to Lord Poole. Both men greeted her with grim frowns. Neither shook their heads.

If they felt free to speak, they would have urged her to accept. Despite her disgust, Lyanna knew it was a fair trade. She had heard of what happened to those who didn’t submit. House Gardener was gone, replaced with House Tyrell, their former stewards. House Baratheon was gone, replaced by House Connington. House Hoare was gone, replaced by House Tully. The other houses that submitted kept their lands, but lost their royalty. House Lannister had submitted and aided the Targaryens, and walked away with the greatest prize of all: a marriage for their daughter to Rhaegar Targaryen. Only Dorne remained unconquered. What Lyanna was receiving was more than fair. She would tolerate this bastard husband for the North’s sake, but she would not let them know she was humiliated.

Lyanna breathed in, then out. It helped to even her temper. “Very well. I accept your terms.” She glanced at Viserys, wondering if he would repeat ‘your grace’ again. He did not.

“Wonderful,” Rhaegar said, smiling true now. “One final matter; as a gesture of goodwill, we have recovered the bodies of your brothers, if you wish to have them interred.”

Lyanna could not hide her alarm this time. “Where are they? Take me to them.” She commanded, feeling herself tremble.

“They will not be easy to look at,” the young Daenerys spoke for the first time. Her voice was sweet and warm, but Lyanna was not fooled. She was as ruthless as her brothers no doubt; the fate of any lone girl caught between hard men.

“Nothing has been easy,” Lyanna admitted with more emotion than she was willing to betray.

They led her out to the courtyard again, where her people still stood tall. She would have to tell them, she realized, that they must kneel from now on, and not to her. Not now, though. She would do that after she had seen her brothers.

Rhaegar whispered commands to some men. They leave, disappearing into the sea of troops, and emerged shortly afterward with three bodies wrapped in bloodied white cloaks. Lyanna felt as if her heart that jumped into her throat. Already her eyes burned with tears unshed. _I will not cry before them,_ she promised herself. _I must be brave for my brothers, for all of us._ Lyanna walked forward alone, pausing before one of the bodies. With a hand that would not stop trembling, she pulled back the cloak ever so slowly.

The sight that greeted her would be one she would never forget. It would have been generous to call it a body. In truth it was a length of charred meat, red and black and unknowable. Was it Brandon? Was is Ned? She did not know. It was shorter than Benjen, and yet it could have still been him.

Her breaths came short to her now, but she did not cry. She would not falter. She had to look upon them one more time. She moved to the second body, where a similar sight greeted her. Burnt beyond recognition-- that was her brothers now. She braced herself to pull back the cloak from the final body, proud at her restraint so far, but wishing so badly she could weep. _I must be brave. I will not cry._

Brandon’s sleeping face greeted her. He was unburnt-- only bloodied, swollen, and purple. She bit back a gasp that she feared would turn into a sob. She pulled the cloak back further to reveal his chest, and the wound that killed him-- a wound that cut right through his heart. _The dragons did not get you, dearest brother,_ she thought. _You died by the sword, like you always knew you would._ She could not keep herself from stroking his cold cheek. Warm tears clung to her eyelashes and blurred her vision, but she quickly wiped them away. _Direwolves do not weep._

“Your eldest brother fought valiantly, and was the last to fall of your brothers,” Rhaegar informed her from a distance. “He cut down many of my men, and would have cut down many more, had Arthur not met him in battle.”

Lyanna’s mouth turned desert dry.

“He was not an easy man to kill, my lady,” Arthur Dayne said. He weakly lifted the arm in the sling. “I took a wound from him.”

 _They are not only marrying me to a bastard,_ Lyanna thought. _They are marrying me to my brother’s killer._

A woman of weaker countenance would have fainted. A woman of her own countenance would have wept. Lyanna instead curled her hands into fists and stood as silent and steady as a statue against them.

They would see her rage long before they would ever see her sorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna breaks the news to her people, and buries her brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most of this typed up already, so I cranked it out pretty quick. Enjoy!

It was a meager feast they had put together, but then again, they were not living in times of plenty. Lyanna had sent her brother’s bodies to be prepared for their entombment, and planned to hold their funerals as soon as she was able. The time had come to address her people, and break the poor news to them. That was not what bothered her; she knew she had to be the one to speak to them. She would have it be no other way. What she did not want was to break bread with the Targaryens and have them watch on. They even presumed to sit with her at the high table, Daenerys on one side of her and Arthur Dayne on the other. She could not even glance at the latter without being filled with bloodlust.

 _How will I marry him?_ She asked herself, and not for the first time. _How will I bear his children? How can I love his children?_ Marriage was not supposed to be filled with such fear and hate. It was always meant to be a duty of hers, but a duty she would carry out as the lady of another house, with a northman who knew her worth. She was meant to have a husband who would be proud to have Winterfell’s daughter be the mother of his children, a man who would love her and she would love in return. She would have taken any northman in the hall instead of the invading Arthur Dayne.

Before war had loomed on the horizon, Brandon had suggested Lord Jon Umber to her, the one they called the Greatjon. He was loud, and boisterous, and so _large_ , that her girlish tongue protested on those qualities alone. Now she sang a different tune. Lyanna had last heard that the Greatjon survived the battle, but only barely, as he took many wounds that would take a great long time to recover from. It did not matter to Lyanna. She would have gladly nursed him back to health, ran his household without complaint, and never asked him for a single thing but his faithfulness. She would warm his bed at night and raise his children during the day, children that would be as big and strong as he was. That was all lost to her now. Now she had Winterfell, and her brother’s murderer.

No matter how much she loved it, Winterfell was never meant to be hers. The great castle always belonged to Brandon. After him, it would have been Ned’s, and after him, Benjen’s. A woman had never ruled Winterfell before. The Starks were always blessed with an abundance of sons. She had been raised to manage much smaller castles, much smaller lands. Instead, the whole entire North had fallen into her lap, Winterfell included. Instead, she was forced to share it all, even her own self, with a man whose only experience with the North was slaughtering its people.

She felt Maester Luwin linger behind her chair. He leaned forward, his gentle hand on her shoulder. “Your people must know now, your grace,” he whispered in her ear. She warmed at being called by her former honorific. It allowed her to pretend for a brief moment.

She nodded, then rose to her feet. She tried not to grasp the edges of her cloak about her, as she did not want to seem as if she were cocooning herself against them. She was still their leader; she must be open to them.

“My good people,” Lyanna began in her loudest voice. A hush fell over the hall immediately. Northerners and southerners alike looked at her expectantly. What did they see? A ruler, or a little girl? “I wish I had more to offer you than what laid before you. I wish I bore better news than I do now. I wish I could turn back time and return your husbands and your sons to you. Alas, that is not our fates.” She could feel tears forming in her eyes as she spoke. She was a dam ready to be burst open at moment; she needed to weep, but knew she must do so alone. “I have bent the knee to King Rhaegar Targaryen. Our kingdom is not our own anymore, and I am not your queen.”

There was a bustle of noise at this, amongst them cries of protests and the beginnings of sobs. Lyanna steeled herself against it. _I am a direwolf. I must be brave._

“Instead I am Lyanna Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North. I swear to carry out my duties to you as faithfully as every Stark before me has. Please understand that I have bent the knee to spare us all any more pain; we have lost too many people, and will lose many more in a war against dragons. There would be nothing but ashes to remember the North by; I would have us live, and live in peace.”

She licked her lips, unprepared to say the next part. Just thinking the words made her feel like a traitor to her own kin. But this was her duty. She did this for all of them.

“In return for these terms, it has been…” She could not find the proper word here. “...determined that I must marry Arthur Dayne, the king’s half-brother.”

The northerners immediately erupted into shouts. Men rose to their feet and threw down their flagons, and women slammed her hands down on the tables, protesting loudly. Lyanna wondered selfishly if it was because they did not want to see their queen be used a Targaryen’s whore, or if it was because they hated the Targaryens without stipulation. Still, she pressed onwards, trying to shout above the raised voices.

“The children I bear will be your lords and ladies of Stark, my lords!”

“You deserve better than a dragon’s bastard get, your grace!” She heard Lord Karstark’s aged voice call out. Those around him rallied to him, including Maege Mormont, who drew her morningstar. “We will not have him in Winterfell!”

The sound of a chair scraping the floor was heard on her right. Viserys was on his feet, and fuming. “You are speaking of your future lord of Winterfell! This woman here is not your queen any longer; you will not call her ‘your grace’!”

“Viserys, calm,” she heard Rhaegar murmur, his voice cutting through the noise.

“I beg you, Lord Karstark, I beg you all, to let this come to pass,” Lyanna shouted, her throat burning. “If you treasure me, if you love the Starks, then love me, for I am the last of them. Save your pity and your rage. I would gladly take on any burden for the sake of your safety, for the sake of the North. Let me be alone in suffering. Go home to what remains of your families. Bury your sons and husbands. Make something of our men’s sacrifices. Find peace, and joy, and… and…”

She was at a loss for thoughts of fair things. A darkness had been cast over her heart, one that was worse than sorrow and worse than rage. Her hesitation was noted, and compounded with her trembling. The hall fell quiet once more.

“House Stark thanks you all for your fealty,” she said in a voice hardly above a whisper. “My brothers loved you all for your loyalty, but I assure you, I love you more. The North is all I have now.” Her eyes swept over the hall a final time. Her vision blurred with tears. “Thank you.” She could feel the hot tears begin to spill down her face; she had to leave before anyone could catch sight of them. As she turned, a hand grasped her arm. Lyanna whirled around to see Arthur Dayne, her betrothed, her brother’s bane.

“Don’t touch me!” She howled, pulling her arm out of his grasp. She ran the rest of the way to her rooms, and buried her face in the pillows.

She wept until she fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Dragons circled overhead on the day of the funeral, screaming and blocking out the sun. She hated the sight and sound of them, especially now. It felt like an insult.

Lyanna did not know which grief was worse: seeing her dead brothers’ bodies in plain light, or seeing them lowered into a tomb. She only knew that she had been given no chance to cling to and weep over their bodies. Now there was no more water in her left for tears. She could only watch in silent heartache, unsure if this counted as the last time she saw them, or if that moment had happened when she had watched them ride out to the Trident. Her father’s words had rung in her head then: _the lone wolf dies but the pack survives_ . Yet the pack had died together, and the lone wolf was made the lone survivor. A strange sort of guilt gnawed at her over this. _You should have died with them._

Surrounded by northerners, Lyanna had never felt more alone. She had never spent a moment apart from her family; she was a girl, after all, and was not sent away as her brothers had been to meet other northern lords. In Winterfell, she always had someone. Even when mother died before she could remember her well, even when father died, she always had her brothers. There was no grief, or joy, or memory that had had that they had not shared in. Now she had no one.

No one, except for the Targaryens who dogged her every step. She would have liked to think they were too wary of her to leave her alone, but Lyanna knew the truth was that they wished to hurry on with their tasks here so they could truly rule their new kingdom. It is not an hour after the funeral that Rhaegar Targaryen is in her solar again, flanked by the ever-silent Arthur Dayne.

She could hardly bear to look at either of them, but it is Arthur who proves the more difficult. Soon she would be his wife, made to share her bed and body with him. It felt like an intimate betrayal. _What would you have chosen, Brandon? Do I marry him, or do I die with honor?_ She already knew the answer to this question, and it turned her stomach.

“We will have the wedding tomorrow, then?” Rhaegar asked with no prelude. Lyanna twisted a hand in her gown.

“I have only just buried my brothers,” she remarked coldly.

“Which makes tomorrow an appropriate date.”

Lyanna pinned him with a scornful glare. “How soon will you leave after?”

Rhaegar smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “The very next morning. You have my word.”

“Tomorrow, then,” she concluded, eager to get him out of her hair. The wedding was inevitability, and the Targaryens were more than unwelcome.

“I cannot wait,” Rhaegar said airily before sweeping out of the solar. His half-brother did not follow him.

“Why are you still here?” Lyanna asked him through gritted teeth. The sight of him alone made her murderous.

“Do you want me to leave?” He asked. Lyanna wondered briefly if he was cruel or only stupid. His dark eyes certainly betrayed no glimmer of intelligence, thus Lyanna decided on the latter.

“I would never see your face again, if I could manage it.”

“That will be difficult once we’re wed.”

Lyanna turned her glare upon him. Whether he was handsome or not, she could not say through eyes that saw red whenever she looked at him. The only thing that pleased her about him was the sight of that bloody wound. It was on his left shoulder, likely meant to cripple that arm. No such luck.

“Would that Brandon had aimed lower, and at your black heart,” Lyanna hissed. The stoic man had no response to that. Looking at him now, Lyanna noted he looked older than Rhaegar. Yet, that did not seem right. The dragon king was seven-and-twenty; surely, his half-brother was born after? “How old are you?” She asked.

“Six-and-twenty,” he answered.

 _Eight years my senior._ Lyanna would have stomached that had he been a Northman, or at the very least, not her brother’s murderer. She would have even have the aged Lord Karstark over him. _The Targaryens have conquered the North, and now they’ve decided to conquer me._

She shut her eyes against the thought of the man before her in her chambers, the king’s chambers-- her bed, the king’s bed… No, she would not let her imagination travel there. It would happen tomorrow, which was soon enough.

“I am not a monster,” the man before her uttered. “I’ve not been tasked to torment you. I’ve been tasked to be your husband, and the father of your children.”

Lyanna shuddered despite herself.

“And you, in turn, shall be my wife, and the mother of my children,” he continued, stepping closer. “I do not intend to treat you ill.”

“I don’t care how you treat me,” Lyanna hissed, feeling her temper flare. “You may beat me daily for all I care, or you may lavish me with affection and treasures. Nothing you do will make me hate you more than I do now, or make me love you. Your half-siblings burnt two of my brothers to charred husks. _You_ killed my brother-- you drove a sword through his brave heart. I will never forgive you for that.”

“Nor would I try to ask for your forgiveness.”

“Then why are you here? _Go_. Go and let me be. Leave me alone until the time comes that you will rob me of both my maidenhead and my dignity in one fell swoop.”

“I came to speak to you,” he said, feet rooted to the spot. “I want to explain what happened at the Trident.”

Lyanna seethed. “I know what happened. I lost my brothers and 30,000 men. There is nothing for you to explain.”

“I can tell you how your brothers died, and why.”

“I know both of those things,” Lyanna returned in a hot flash.

“You weren’t there,” the man continued despite her protests. _Stupid indeed._

“I do not want to hear you recount how Ned and Ben were burned beyond recognition. I don’t care to learn how difficult or how easy it was for you to kill Brandon. Enough boasts. You have won me, and won the North. Now let me be.” Her voice turned progressively more harried toward the end, but gods damn him, she was tired. Tired of exchanging words, tired of his face, tired of everything.

“I did not come here to boast,” Arthur insisted, his bronzed skin burning red in his face. “My lady, if I did not kill him--”

“By the gods, don’t you dragonspawn know how to leave me alone?” Lyanna said, laughing in exasperation and feeling mad in the process. “I said _go_!”

He lingered in place for a few moments more, perhaps deciding between speaking his piece and avoiding her wrath. He wisely chose the latter, and exited the solar soundlessly. Lyanna fell back into her chair, drained and exhausted. The past week had felt like years. It seemed as if every new hour brought a new torment, a new misery. Not even closing her eyes earned her respite. Instead she saw her brothers bodies in sharp relief against the black of her eyelids, reminding her of hole in her heart.

 _I am lost without you,_ she thought, hoping against hope that her brothers could hear her somehow. _Come back to me. Please come back._

A knock on the door roused her from her reverie. Lyanna blinked, then cursed under her breath, wondering which Targaryen had come to torment her now.

“Come in,” Lyanna commanded. She straightened in her chair to accept this new guest.

It was Maege Mormont who entered, dressed in her ringmail with her morningstar on her hip. The woman was older than Lyanna by two decades, but she had appeared even older after the news of Dacey’s death reached her. Still, the short woman managed a warm smile, and even a bow.

“Do not bow, Lady Mormont. I am not your queen any longer,” Lyanna said, sorrowful to report the fact.

“Not according to those Targaryens, no. But you are a Stark, and _my_ queen in the North,” the woman returned in her rough and tumble voice.

“That is kind of you to say,” Lyanna said half-heartedly. She did not want to be anyone’s queen, but she understood the sentiment. “Were your brother and nephew among the wounded who returned to Winterfell?” There was no mention of them in the messengers that had arrived from the Trident. Lyanna had hoped for the best.

“My brother, yes. Injured, but he’ll live. Jorah, no. Jeor says he died on the field. Dragonfire.”

Lyanna’s heart ached. “I’m sorry to hear it, Lady Maege. I’m sorry for Dacey too. Is there anything House Stark can do to aid you in these difficult times?” The words ‘House Stark’ made it sound bigger than it actually was. House Stark was only Lyanna Stark. But Lyanna had heard her father ask that same question before, and thought it right to say.

“Nothing, your grace. I intend to travel to the Trident and try and find Dacey’s body. I would like to bury her, at least. My girl was brave.” Her tone turned into one of warm pride. “Jeor says she cut down dozens before she fell-- and she was only six-and-ten. She died a warrior’s death.” The woman did not appear close to tears as she spoke, not as Lyanna was when she thought of her fallen brothers. But then again, Maege was older, wiser. She would not weep before a woman so much younger, and she was braver than Lyanna by far. “But I did not come here to speak of Dacey.”

Lyanna nodded. “What did you come to speak about, my lady?”

“Your marriage. It is not a popular one among the northmen.” Something like rage flashed into the older woman’s dark eyes. “I could kill him, if you’d like.”

Lyanna blinked at the offer. It was a tempting one, no doubt. Lyanna had even thought of it herself, of hiding Brandon’s hunting dagger in her chambers and cutting her husband’s throat open before he could even touch her. But Lyanna knew better; the marriage would let her keep a peaceful North, let her stay a Stark. She had to honor it, even if it gave her nothing but disgust.

“It seems I must suffer it, at least until I have an heir. Should he die before then, I fear the dragons would only return, with more fire and blood.”

“Perhaps,” the woman grumbled. “I do not like the thought of a southerner ruling Winterfell.”

“He will never rule Winterfell,” Lyanna insisted hotly. “ _I_ will. His title is only words.”

Maege gave her a small smile. “A small comfort, though it does not change the fact that he will be your husband.” She scoffed. “Husbands-- I never saw any use for such a thing. I pray my daughters don’t either. They are the most useless sort of men.”

In a happier time, Lyanna would have laughed. Instead, she felt her spirits sink even lower.

“I remember how you were when you when I first saw you at Winterfell,” Maege continued in a more wistful tone. “A little girl of six, always at my heels, asking me about my morningstar. You asked me to train you in arms-- do you remember that?”

“Yes,” Lyanna said softly, recalling the memory only vaguely. She had been so fascinated by Maege, by all the Mormont women who came before her. There was nothing Lyanna wanted more than to carry a sword and wear ringmail without having to be a man. Such dreams were struck down by her father. That did not stop her and Benjen from sparring with sticks in the godswood, though.

“I asked your father if I could train you. I remember how insulted he looked, as if I had offered to spit in his wine. You were a spirited little thing. Too smart for her age. You remained much the same when I came to Winterfell again, six years later. Always eyeing me and my daughters; I told my Dacey you were jealous of her, and she thought me mad. The princess, jealous of her? Impossible!” Maege gave a bark of laughter, and Lyanna managed a plaintive smile. She was right; Lyanna was jealous. Dacey had what was denied to her, the only thing she really wanted. “I knew that whatever man your father married you off to would have trouble making a wife of you. You’d either wear him down, or he’d take you in hand, try to be a man. Or perhaps he’d find you a husband who’d only be too glad to have a wild little wife. Let you do all the things your father wouldn’t let you. That was my wish for you.”

 _That might have been my happy fate, had Brandon kneeled,_ Lyanna thought with some measure of bitterness, before she became overwhelmed by guilt. It would not do to blame the dead. Brandon was only doing what he thought was right.

“Are you a maid, your grace?” Maege asked. The question caught Lyanna by surprise. Despite being a mother, Maege was not motherly. Or at least, she was not Lyanna’s mother, and such a question would have embarrassed her even if it came from her true mother. Yet Lyanna felt compelled to answer, out of respect for her elders.

“I am,” Lyanna replied, feeling a pinch uncomfortable.

“I wish you weren’t,” Maege returned plainly. “I doubt that bastard will be gentle with you. If he’s not, I suggest you be ungentle in return. You’ve teeth and claws, and surely the armory has a dirk left for you.”

This was not the wedding night advice Lyanna was expecting. “I’ll remember that, my lady,” she said weakly.

“In any case, I remember you being an avid rider. You likely broke your maidenhead on a saddle years prior. One less pain for you.”

Lyanna wondered if it was childish of her to blush, but she could not help it. Between talks of maidenhead and that dreaded wedding night, Lyanna had felt like her head would burst. _I only want it to be over with quickly,_ she thought to herself. _And to suffer it once, and only once._

“I will look for Dacey after your wedding,” Maege said, not even a shred sheepish at this exchange. Then again, she was the mother of daughters. She was well-equipped for such talks. “Then I will return to Bear Island. If you need my mace, your grace, you need only to send for me.”

“Thank you, Lady Maege. Your loyalty to House Stark will never be forgotten. Or your honesty,” Lyanna added.

Maege offered another brave smile, and another bow before she left the solar. Lyanna was glad for her words, however naked they were. Maege Mormont was honest and true, and her loyalty could never be doubted. She was lucky to have such a bannerman.

But as soon as she left, Lyanna felt alone again. She wondered if this feeling would ever go away.

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Yet I must live. I am the last of the Starks._

And tomorrow she would be brave enough to make her brothers proud.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna Stark gets married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as I noted on my tumblr, the next chapter of A Place of No Return should be up within the week. This fic, on the other hand, has the next chapter written out already. I'll make you guys wait a little for it tho :)
> 
> oh and a warning: sex ahead

Lyanna treated the day of her wedding as any other day. She bathed and washed her hair. She wore her mourning gown, a modest, high-necked gown of black. She plaited her hair without a servant’s help, down the side. The only thing that changed was her choice of cloak.

Her father had her maiden’s cloak sewn when she turned three-and-ten. It was made of wool, bleached a stark white by the sun so that that grey direwolf stitched into it stood out in sharp relief. Little obsidians were used for the beast’s eyes, and it was outlined in silver thread. The shoulders were lined with black fur-- wolf’s fur, of course. It was not an extravagant thing; it was practical, and warm, and it felt as if she wore her home around her shoulders.

They awaited her in the godswood, as even the foreign Targaryens understood that a ceremony in the old gods tradition was the only way any northerner would accept the marriage as valid. There was the issue of the one who would give her away, however. Lyanna had no brothers, no father, and no uncles. She was a woman grown with no guardian to speak of. But she asked Lord Karstark the night before if he would walk her to the tree. Stark and Karstark were one blood, after all, and he agreed. The aged, blind man required her to walk him more than the other way around, but Lyanna did not mind. She let him lean on her all the way to the heart tree.

The guests were gathered around the pools. Lyanna noted a marked divide; on one side, the southerners stood with their dragon masters, clearly uncomfortable in this old and sacred place. On the other stood the northerners, who stood tall and proud and familiar, if not a little disgruntled.

Arthur stood singular beneath the heart tree, dressed in fine silver and black raiment that made his tanned skin glow. His dark hair was combed away from his face, and a shadow of a beard could be seen on his chiseled jaw. His looked dark and serious, an odd contrast to his siblings, who all smiled with varying degrees of satisfaction.

“Who comes? Who comes before the gods?” Arthur called out, speaking the proper words. Someone must have coached him beforehand.

“Now comes Lyanna of House Stark to be wed,” Lord Karstark half grumbled. His frown on his face was the deep as his wrinkles. “A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Me, Arthur of House Dayne,” Arthur answered. Lyanna noted his lack of titles, and was reminded once of the low birth of the man she would marry. “I claim her. Who gives her?”

“I do. Harrion of House Karstark, the bride’s chosen escort.” Lyanna noted the unfamiliar relation as well, but thought nothing of it. Lord Karstark turned stiff to her, his arthritic hand covering hers where it lay on his arm. “Queen Lyanna, will you take this man?”

 _You sweet old man,_ she wanted to say. She could only imagine Viserys’s face turning an ugly crimson at the usage of her old, royal title. Lyanna took the time to look at him and confirm the notion; she was right. Viserys was visibly fuming. Lyanna took even more time to look at her guests. She looked at Maege, at her little girls, at Lord Bolton, Lady Hornwood, Lady Poole, Maester Luwin-- men and women of the north. Men and women she loved and trusted. She tried to imagine her brothers amongst the fold. Sweet Ned would have stood closest to the heart tree, his solemn face a safe haven. Benjen would have been right beside him, offering her an encouraging smile to lighten her spirits and give her heart. And Brandon-- she would have been on his arm, as her escort, her guardian, her protector. He would have rather died than witness such a wedding, she knew, but in her mind she was allowed to pretend. She could almost hear his fine, strong voice now: _“Brandon of House Stark, brother to the bride.”_ He would have growled right through the words, then glowered at Arthur Dayne until he melted where he stood.

Lyanna was content in her thoughts, but the silence was becoming uncomfortable for the southern side of the wedding party. They fidgeted where they stood, glanced and whispered amongst one another. Perhaps they thought this was how all northern weddings proceeded. Perhaps some realized that the silence was uncharacteristic. The Targaryens certainly realized it. Daenerys was stony-faced, Viserys turned redder than she thought was humanly possible, and Rhaegar pinned her with an icy stare. Arthur had cast his glance downward, perhaps to hide an embarrassed blush. Lyanna heard the low rumble of laughter from the northern side; Maege’s laughter, she realized. It made Lyanna smile.

_I suppose I must speak the words eventually._

“I take this man,” Lyanna said flippantly. The tension in the godswood deflated immediately. Lord Karstark patted her hand. He smiled a sad, rheumy-eyed smile. Lyanna kissed his weathered cheek, then pulled away from him.

She met Arthur at the altar, his blush faded, and, hopefully, his pride bruised. He extended a calloused hand to her, which she took with nary a glance. Together they kneeled before the heart tree, and bowed their heads.

 _Today I marry the man who killed my brother and my countrymen. I beg you forgive me of this sin,_ she prayed. _And if forgiveness is not mine to have, then give me a chance to atone. I will suffer this marriage however I must. I only want my honor back. I want my brothers back too, but I know that they are gone. Give me a chance to prove myself to a better woman than I present to you today. Help me lead my people, and well. Help me become closer to you. Help me make my family proud._ She had too many prayers, she realized, far too many for a wedding prayer. But Lyanna knew she was damned; she only needed hope that she was not damned forever.

Lyanna opened her eyes and turned to look at her new husband. His head was not bowed anymore, but he was still kneeling, waiting for her. They rose together. Once on their feet, Lyanna slipped her hand from his. She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned her back to him. His tall figure came close behind her, close enough to where she felt his breath on her neck. He reached around her undo the tie of her maiden’s cloak over her breast. Once undone, it slipped into his hands, and was taken away. Girlish tears sprung into her eyes at the loss; she felt naked without it. A new, lighter cloak was wrapped around her in its place. Lyanna screwed her eyes tight to push back her foolish tears; she was facing her people, after all. They could not see her cry.

Lyanna pulled the edge of the cloak around her, and was surprised to see its colors. The trim was silver velvet, and the rest of it satin in a lilac hue. Little silver stars were sewn into it. They were not Targaryen colors at all. Lyanna scattered her confusion for now, and turned back to face her husband again. They had a second ceremony, after all, one for his gods.

It had been her understanding that the cloaking ceremony was part of their custom as well, though it seemed they would only do it once. An old man stood between them and the heart tree, dressed in sumptuous ivory and crimson robes. A septon, and the first Lyanna had ever seen.

He began to speak, waxing poetic about marriage, and duty, and a wife’s submission to her husband. Arthur had taken her hands again, and his gaze was soft, fixed onto her. Lyanna did not attempt to return his gentleness. She felt cursed holding his hands, damned for performing this blasphemous ceremony in the godswood. Lyanna swore the air kicked up, and made the rustling of the heart tree’s boughs sound even louder. Red leaves fell around them. The heart tree weeped. They were all angry at her-- her brothers, every kin that came before them, and the old gods. What she did for survival shamed them all-- and shamed her too, most of all. She was caught between wanting to kill Arthur and wanting to kill herself. There had to be some end to this misery.

Finally, the time for speaking came. The septon ended his sermon with the words half of them had been waiting for, and half had been dreading: “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

Lyanna spoke what she had learned hurriedly and unhappily the night before. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger.” Arthur echoed her, but these were his gods, not hers. They meant nothing to her at all. “I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days. Unfortunately.” The last word she added under her breath.

There was one more line, though. She had learned that she was supposed to speak it first. Lyanna had subjected the audience to one extended silence, and considered seriously the arrival of a second. But it was done. She was wed, whether she spoke the words or not, and further resistance would be a waste of everyone’s time.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband,” she said coldly.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife,” Arthur replied, sounding more warm and eager than expected. And how not? He had been elevated from titleless bastard to the Lord of Winterfell, with a maid of eight-and-ten as his glorious prize. Any man would be happy.

His finger caught her under her chin, and tilted her face up. He kissed her softly and briefly, but Lyanna felt she could not turn away quick enough. Her stomach roiled and her heart hammered against her chest. _I kissed my brother’s killer,_ she thought to herself, wondering what sort of scene it would be if she screamed.

What followed was a bleak and dismal wedding feast, if it could be called a feast at all. The southern host had all but eaten through her stores, and Lyanna had to be conservative for this wedding. They had the barest needs-- wine, ale, mead, bread and some meats. She hoped they would drink their fill before they ate their fill.

She had not hired any singers for the wedding, but the Targaryens did not let this oversight pass. They had their own musicians play and attempt to bring mirth to the dreary hall. The southerners made an effort, dancing and singing along, utterly oblivious to the sight of murderous northmen on the opposite side of the hall. Several times matters came dangerously close to a brawl. One drunken lordling even demanded a duel for her hand. Such disturbances were quelled before too much blood was drawn.

Her new husband sat beside her, quiet and not sharing in his countrymen’s mirth. He rose only to submit to a dance with Daenerys, who looked stunning in her black and red gown. It shimmered, boasting of precious jewels sewn into the cloth, and her silver-gold hair had been piled prettily upon her head.

The couple’s shared wine cup went untouched. Lyanna was not prepared to lose her faculties for tonight, when she needed them most. She wondered suspiciously what kept Arthur from imbibing. She had to admit, however, that it had been tempting to drink. Too often, her vision was filled with the sight she bore the day before, of her brothers entombed and locked away forever. It weighed heavy on her mind and heavier on her heart.

 _Only one,_ she thought again. _I would have been happy if you left me only one._

There came a point where she could not bear the hall, which echoed with the sounds of merriment when she felt none. She needed to be alone, to gather herself before she was made to lay with a man she so despised. She rose abruptly to her feet. For some reason, it earned her a ceasing of the music and all eyes on her.

 _The bedding,_ Lyanna remembered with horror. _No doubt they mean to have one._

She was certain that the first southerner to lay a hand on her would get her hands around his throat. She wanted none of them to touch her, or to undress her, or to see her laid bare-- not even the northmen. She did not need this humiliation no matter what side it came from.

Lyanna waited for a call for a bedding, but none came. She glanced around the room before she settled her gaze on Arthur. He gave her a solemn nod.

“I will come to you later,” he said simply.

Lyanna did not need further explanation. She gathered her skirts and made her way to the king’s chambers, relief washing over her like dip in the hot springs.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur made good on his word. By the time he came to her, she had long since undressed herself, undid her hair, and worn her nightgown in place of her mourning gown. Lyanna watched him enter her chambers from the looking-glass at her vanity. He loped in with no greetings, appearing wholly comfortable as he undid the buttons of his silver doublet. Perhaps he had drunk the wine in their cup and felt brave, brave enough to take her on. Lyanna was a direwolf, after all. She had teeth and claws and an evil stare.

Yet, what was the point? If he did not have her tonight, he would have her another night. She could wait until he died, or kill him herself, but then what? Rhaegar had made it abundantly clear that he desired the next Stark to be a dragonspawn, even if Arthur was only half a dragon himself. Lyanna could expend her energy tonight and every other night to stave him off, and that was only if Arthur was unwilling to force himself upon her. Worse, he could let her kick him from her bed without argument, giving Lyanna no chance to fight.

Was this to be her battleground, then? Her brothers had the waters of the Trident to contend with; would she have the furs of the king of the north’s bed?

Or perhaps she should submit, as Brandon should have submitted. Let the Targaryens have a single victory of one dragon-blooded heir. She would take the child and make him her own-- a Stark, in name and in essence. She could name him Brandon, and make him a direwolf. If the gods loved her at all, they would give him her looks. Dark hair, and grey eyes that would laugh in the face of dragons.

A pair of calloused hands gently grasped her bare shoulders. Lyanna shivered involuntarily at the touch, then glared at Arthur in the looking-glass.

“If you do not want to, tonight…” He trailed off, but Lyanna understood his meaning.

“I want to get it over with,” she clipped, rising abruptly to her feet. “With any luck you will put a child in me on this night, and then leave me be for the rest of my days.” She climbed into the large bed and slipped under the furs, eyes set on the ceiling.

“It does not have to be like that,” he said in his infuriatingly calm voice.

“Like _what_?” She snapped, sitting up straight to glare at him again.

“It does not have to be unpleasant.”

Lyanna gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Matters have been more than merely unpleasant for me, _my lord_.” She used the honorific mockingly. “I have been filled with grief from my toes to the crown of my head. This will only be a small annoyance in my sea of misery.”

“You would prefer to be displeased?”

“I prefer nothing from you but your absence.”

“Then am I given leave to treat you as I will?” He walked to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge of it. “Touch you as I like?” He asked as he pulled his boots off.

His words made her burn. “As if my leave means anything to you.”

“It means a great deal to me.” He slipped under the furs with her, and sat up against the headboard. His dark purple eyes fixed on hers intently. “You are my wife, after all.”

“I am your prize.”

“A poor one,” he returned, with the hint of a smile. Lyanna was unsure if she should take offense or take pride. “A good prize would let me bed her with less protest.”

Lyanna had the sudden urge to strike him. Then without prelude or warning, he leaned toward her and pressed a kiss upon her lips. She drew back quickly and glared.

“You insist on being miserable, then?” He asked, sounding almost incredulous. “You will not take joy where you can find it?”

“My joy died with my brothers,” she rasped.

“And it will surely return to you when you hold your first child in your arms,” he noted gruffly. His eyes fixed on her with a naked intensity that made her feel strangely warm. “Let us make that child, then.” As he moved atop her, Lyanna moved back, until her head was on the pillows and her back against the featherbed. She felt Arthur pull up the hem of her nightgown and ruck it above her hips. He parted her thighs and settled between them. She could feel him through his trousers, she realized, half hard against her smallclothes. She shut her eyes against the oddly pleasant warmth, and waited for the worst to be over.

Yet he was cruel. He pressed a languid kiss behind her ear, where her quickening pulse beat against his lips. There his face lingered, in the crook of her neck, as his calloused slipped into her smallclothes. His thumb pressed against her most sensitive spot as his fingers parted her folds. Lyanna swallowed her cry; she felt herself dangerously close to being caught up in this heady feeling, but knew she could not let herself lose control. It would be indecent, traitorous. When she felt the pad of his forefinger enter her, only barely, she gave a soft moan that alarmed her.

“Stop,” she heard herself say, though the truth was she did not want him to stop. It felt _good_ , she realized with a measure of shame, but it frightened her how quickly he managed to scatter her inhibitions. Her husband obeyed and withdrew his hand, but returned to his lazy kisses. He pressed one at her throat, another at her collar, another at the top of a breast. All the while, Lyanna felt torn between sighing or shouting a command for him to hurry, and get it over with. His mouth moved farther south, until his head was under the furs. Lyanna opened her eyes, baffled. She felt the stubble of his beard scratch the inside of her thigh, and almost cried aloud. His breath was hot against her wet smallclothes, which he undid and pulled away. With one hand wrapped around her thigh, he buried his face right _there…_

And Lyanna nearly screamed. Shamefully, she writhed against him, and her hips bucked up despite her attempt at restraint. He was using his _mouth_ , she realized, kissing her in the most unlikely place. His tongue lavished her folds as his thumb moved over the place he had touched prior. When he rolled it like a pearl between his fingers, her cry caught in her throat. She had never known a pleasure like this, a pleasure so great it frightened her. This was not how she was told couplings go. Yet she liked it more than what her imagination had fed her, if the scraping of her heel in between Arthur’s shoulder blades was any indication. She knew she should ask him to stop again, as pleasure was not what was required of him, but the word would not form. Whatever he was doing with his mouth had made her lose control of her own.

Then suddenly, she felt as if she had crested, her senses lost to her and yet keenly felt all at once. A noise escaped her lips that shamed her. As her hands twisted in the sheets, she found herself with a set of fingers laced with that of her husband’s. He rode out her pleasure with a kiss pressed to the inside of her thigh, then emerged when she was panting and red faced.

He said nothing, did not mock how her body betrayed her heart, and left her with some semblance of dignity. His purple eyes bored dangerously into her, his dark hair disheveled around his face. When he kissed her, she tasted herself. She moaned shamelessly into his mouth, and her face burned with something between shame and untethered pleasure. “Please,” she mewled, though she did not know what for. Mercy? More of the same? _This is my brother’s killer. Brandon’s killer,_ a small voice in her head tried to remind her, but it was drowned out by the rushing of blood in her ears.

She felt him between her legs again, only now he was hard and there was nothing between them. He met her eyes, almost as if asking permission, before he sheathed himself inside her.

This was not as pleasant as before, and Lyanna took some heart in this. After such a wanton show, a little discomfort would make her feel as if she had suffered him. Indeed, this felt foreign and more difficult, being stretched around him. He moved slowly inside her at first, then quicker and quicker. He kept this warrior’s pace, and every roll of his hips rocked her into the featherbed. She felt the need to brace herself against him. Her hand slipped under his shirt and she dug her nails into his back. Arthur responded by pressing the hand he held beside her head, anchoring her to the bed. When they locked eyes again, Lyanna tried to recall the feeling of bloodlust she felt in her solar. The feeling did not arrive; instead she whimpered like a wounded dog as he thrust into her, and not even she could not place whether it was out of pleasure or pain.

Her discomfort faded by the time he spent himself inside her. Lyanna gasped at the warm feeling in time with his final grunt. Their shared efforts left them both panting. Then slowly, they unwound from each other, Arthur on one side of the bed, Lyanna on the other.

She curled onto her side, her back to him. She did not know if she should weep or breathe a sigh of relief. It had been far better than she expected, yet somehow that made it all worse. This was her battlefield, and she let herself get lost in it. She should have fought, or submitted unhappily. She should not have let him please her.

 _Traitor_ , a voice screamed in her head, no longer drowned out. _Whore. The man who killed your brother reduced you to a sighing, writhing thing. He put himself inside you, and you liked it-- in your father’s bed no less._

She had been wanton when she was meant to be cold. The shame was big enough to consume her.

She felt Arthur’s fingertips brush against her back. She sucked in a breath and drew away quickly. “Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t touch me.” A tear leaked from her eye. She turned her face to her pillows to hide her sobs.

She did not even know what it was she cried for. There was so many things-- her brothers, the North, the men who perished at the Trident, being alone, and the burning shame of coupling with Brandon’s killer and _enjoying_ it. When she recalled that Arthur was right beside her, the shame grew deeper and she cried even harder. She had sworn that he would never see her weep; this bed was a battleground she was faltering upon.

When Arthur touched her again, she blindly swatted him away.

“Did I hurt you?” She heard him ask.

If she could speak without wheezing, she might have replied, _Hurt me? Hurt me? You’ve ruined me._ When she pressed her legs together, the seed on her thighs mingled with her own wetness, another reminder of her indignity.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, as if that could ever solve anything. It was she who ought to apologize, to Brandon and every other northman she betrayed in this bed. By his own volition, Arthur rose from the bed and left the room, leaving her alone again.

When her sorrow passed, she found herself filled with hate. _I hate him_ , she told herself, thinking of her husband. _I hate him and every Targaryen. I hate them all._ A week ago she had three brothers and a hopeful heart; now she had nothing, not her virtue or her pride or even her dignity. She was wedded to a bastard, the man who killed her eldest brother. He took her maidenhead and the last of her pride.

 _Why did I live when they all died?_ She asked herself, not for the first time. _What is the point of ruling the North when I have no one? It was not my right. This was not meant for me._ She must have done something terrible in this life to deserve such a fate; she only wondered what it was she did.

It was too late to pray for answers now; the gods had surely abandoned her. She had no one, no one at all. She was a whore, a traitor, and damned. It was time she got used to feeling alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna visits the winter town, and asks for a favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)

Lyanna did not let herself be bogged down by her own sorrow and shame, not when there was work to be done. She rose early the next morning, dressed in her mourning clothes, and called on a servant to have her horse saddled and ready. She sent another servant to fetch Maester Luwin and Lord Poole. Lyanna knew she had duties here at Winterfell, duties to the North that she must fulfill. She would break her fast after she had accomplished something.

The venture out into the courtyard was not as uneventful as she had hoped it would be. Many of the northern lords and ladies were returning to their castles that morning, and all of them wished to exchange words with her. She received condolences, words of comfort, oaths of loyalty. She had her hands kissed and was jostled between lord and lady; surrounding them were the smallfolk. Some injured, some not, most of them quick to kneel or to curse the events of the past week. Lyanna tried to take this all in stride without being overwhelmed-- a strange feeling for her. Lyanna usually loved people, loved conversation and meeting others, but lately it had been difficult for her to find that same joy again.

When she finally made it out of the ring of people, she saw the Targaryens at the gates. Their dragons had landed outside of the walls of Winterfell, ready to sweep up their masters and take them back to their lair. Arthur was with them as well, surrounded by his southern retinue. He appeared to be exchanging some final words with his half-siblings. Lyanna glowered at them from afar.

Rhaegar Targaryen met her eyes, and appeared to silently beckon her over. Lyanna remained rooted to her spot. This earned her a more commanding hand wave, coupled with Arthur’s expectant stare.

 _I am not a dog to be told to come and go,_ Lyanna seethed internally. Another part of her urged her to hurry onward, as the sooner she heard his final insults, the sooner he would depart Winterfell for good. Thus she listened to her pragmatic self, and walked over to them.

“Good morning, my lady,” Rhaegar said coolly, smiling his infuriating smile. It set her on edge. Perhaps Arthur had recounted the shameful tale of pleasure from last night, and now he felt victorious. Lyanna pressed her lips together, and offered no response in return.

“The proper way to greet your king is with a curtsey,” Viserys clipped from beside his brother.

She felt the eyes of the northmen bore into her back. “I must confess, it’s a motion I have never practiced,” Lyanna replied sweetly. “Will you show me how, your grace?”

“Perhaps we’ll see you kneel instead. You knew how to do _that_ ,” Viserys cut in. He must have brushed up on his cruelty since the last time they exchanged words.

“A curtsey will do,” Rhaegar said, as if he were doing her a favor.

Lyanna swallowed the last of her pride and offered a shallow curtsey, her eyes fixed on Rhaegar’s face rather than his feet.

“Beautifully done,” Rhaegar crooned. She felt like a child beneath his cold gaze. “Now I must bid you farewell, Lady Stark, as I promised. I wish you a life of happiness, and I pray that your halls will soon be filled with the cries of a sweet babe. I am eager to become an uncle.”

Her stomach performed a flip flop. She watched on silently as they exchanged their goodbyes. Rhaegar embraced Arthur warmly, but Viserys only offered him a nod. Daenerys, on the other hand, was swept off her feet in Arthur’s embrace. The girl laughed warmly, and finished her goodbye with a kiss on his cheek. It was difficult to watch the siblings part. She thought of the times she stood at this very gate and bid farewell to one of her brothers before they set out to travel. She thought of the last time she said goodbye to them, the three of them armed and armored. They kissed her hands and cheeks and told her to wait for them. She waited. They never came.

The Targaryen men did not attempt to take one of her folded hands for a kiss. Rhaegar gave her a smile and a nod, and Viserys parted with a glare. Daenerys, on the other hand, clasped Lyanna’s arms and kissed her on both cheeks.

“You are wonderfully brave, Lady Stark,” the younger girl said, violet eyes shining. “I am sorry for all the sorrow we have brought you. If you should ever need anything--”

“I will not call on you,” Lyanna interrupted, and shrugged out of the girl’s hands.

The girl’s smile did not slip. She nodded instead, then turned to her half-brother to give him a final kiss on the cheek. She was so small that she had to stand on her toes to accomplish the task, and Arthur so tall that had to help her by bending down.

Then finally, blessedly, the Targaryens mounted their dragons, and took to the skies. Their men too began their march south, save for the host that would remain in Winterfell. Lyanna closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. _If I never see a Targaryen in Winterfell again, it would be far too soon,_ she thought.

“Good morning, my lady,” Arthur said from beside her. Lyanna did not pay him a glance, or any sort of attention. She turned on her heel to find her mount, where she found Maester Luwin and Lord Poole were waiting for her on their own horses.

They rode into the winter town together. The homes, which usually did not see people until the winter, had been occupied since the troops had returned, filled with injured soldiers and those displaced by the war. Lyanna had never seen it this full in her life, not even in the worst of winters. Noises of pain filled the air, and so did the stench of rot. She had to bury her nose in her sleeve to keep the bile from jumping up her throat.

“By the gods,” she whispered, surprised at the harrowing sight. There were even injured men lying in the road, the houses too packed to give them shade. Lyanna dismounted, and stuck her head into the closest home. The stench of death only grew stronger indoors. There were bodies packed nearly on top of one another, most of them alive, all of them bloodied or burnt. There was no one inside attending to them. They mostly all groaned and writhed where they lay. Light filtered in through a hole in the roof, and Lyanna found herself wondering what this place would smell like after a hard rain. She removed herself quickly, unable to bear the sight and smell of it. She gave a dry heave and stumbled back to her horse. Luwin and Beron steadied her.

“This is not right,” Lyanna managed to choke out, as hot tears sprung into her eyes. “These are my people. We must take care of them.” Those were her father’s lessons, one of many that spoke to her, and that she held faithfully to.

“They are many,” Luwin reported somberly.

“Then we will turn the winter town into an infirmary,” Lyanna insisted. The idea had sprung out only partially formed, but she pressed on with it. “I will pay any maester or nurse who comes to the winter town to treat the soldiers. I will pay for the herbs they need, the potions, and food for all of them. This is unacceptable.”

“A fine and noble idea, your grace,” Luwin stated with a kindly smile. “I will send ravens and riders to find these people for you.”

“In the meantime, I would have the servants at Winterfell do what they can. They will come out to feed and water these poor people,” Lyanna continued, half frantic. “I will spare as much food as I can-- and we’ll send the hunters out now, to keep our stores stocked. I’ll pay for whatever crops can be spared from the farms, though I know the harvest has not come in yet.” So many ideas spilled out at once, all of which she would see through. “We _must_ take care of them.”

“All noble suggestions, your grace,” Beron cut in, unsmiling. “But I fear this single battle has already been costly. We paid for the arms and armor, much of which had not been returned to us, we paid for food for these soldiers, and the southern troops were not considerate… Our expenses have been many as of late.”

“But we have the coin for this, don’t we?” Lyanna demanded to know.

“Not enough,” Beron confessed. “We were meant to collect taxes a fortnight ago--”

“I’ll not collect them now!” She interrupted hotly. “Everyone needs their coin now. We must delay that.”

“It has been delayed already, your grace. But until the ports reopen and return to their regular business, until trade resumes and the remaining men return to work, we shall be short on money for some time.”

Lyanna felt her temper hit a peak and burst. “Then what shall we do?” It was infuriating to be told such dour news, another in a string of ill-fated events. What was the point in being Lady of Winterfell if she could not get her way? “Let these men all suffer and die? They fought for my brothers. They fought for Winterfell, and the North. I’ll not let them rot!”

“Calm, your grace,” Luwin said.

“Don’t tell me to be calm!” She turned on the older man, fists clenched, then immediately regretted it. _They are only trying to help,_ she reminded herself. _They are being honest with you._ Lyanna sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. She would have to control her temper better as Lady of Winterfell. Her father once told her that her temper was in her blood-- the wolf’s blood, he called it, as if it were an affliction. _Calm._

“We have options,” Beron ventured in a cautious tone. “We may borrow from other houses. The Arryns have always been good neighbors. I may send a request of a loan to Lord Jon Arryn. He might be generous in the interest.”

“To borrow means we must pay them back,” Lyanna frowned. She did not like the idea of a debt, and sums had always been her worst subject.

“It is them or the crown, your grace. With House Lannister soon to be joined to them, they will have more coin that they will know what to do with.”

Lyanna felt a hot flash of anger pass over her. “I will _not_ be indebted to the crown,” she seethed. “I’d rather we go bankrupt before we borrow money from them.”

“I know that, your grace,” Beron insisted, quickly understanding his mistake. “But a different thought came to me. The crown has reason to see the North prosper, with their half-brother at the helm. It would embarrass them to see the North suffer.”

“They are the reason it suffers,” Lyanna snapped. “And I will not borrow--”

“No, we’ll not borrow,” Beron cut in before she could continue. “But perhaps you could convince your husband to ask his half-brother for a wedding gift.”

Lyanna blinked her rage away. “A wedding gift?”

“A gift of coin, from Rhaegar Targaryen to his half-brother, Arthur Dayne. A gift that does not need to be paid back.”

Lyanna considered her steward’s words, trying to think like a queen and not like a woman. A gift would indeed be a blessing; it would be quick coin for the North to keep and do with as it likes. It would mitigate the need for a loan, or at least allow Lyanna to ask for a smaller sum from House Arryn. It would also, unfortunately, require her to speak to her husband, a task which she had intended on performing very little in their marriage. There was also the matter of her pride to consider. Asking Arthur for his brother’s coin was not something she could imagine herself doing without wanting to tear her own hair out. She did not want anything from the people who put her men in such a miserable state to begin with. _Think like a queen, Lyanna. Think of your people._

“The Targaryens hurt these men, your grace. Let them pay for their healing too,” Luwin remarked as if he had read her mind.

“Very well,” Lyanna huffed; her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I will ask Arthur tonight.” She hoped he would be easy to convince; she refused to subject herself to further humiliation by begging.

They mounted their horses again, and rode back to Winterfell. She took as much joy a she could from this short ride, for after seeing the state of the winter town, she knew very well she would not be able to ride for sport for a very long time. Lyanna was a fine rider, and there was none who could keep up her pace, not in all of Winterfell. Not even her brothers could outrace her. It had been a source of joy and pride for her.

When they arrived in Winterfell, it felt too soon. Reluctantly, Lyanna dismounted, and stopped to stare at her horse. She was a strong mare the color of midnight, with a black mane that Lyanna would comb until it shined. When sweet creature stared at her with its dark eyes, Lyanna nearly offered her an apology. She stroked her nose instead.

 _I’m afraid you will be idling in the stables for some time, Aly,_ Lyanna lamented. _We all must make sacrifices._

“I will take some of my supplies and some assistants, and return to the winter town,” Luwin spoke up, forcing her mind to return to the present. “I will try to treat as many as I can.”

“Thank you, maester,” Lyanna said as she smiled weakly. She gave her horse a final stroke before handing her reins off to a stableboy who stood at attention. Then, with much effort, she turned away from the horse and to Lord Poole instead. “My lord, I require the services of a sculptor. I must have statues of my brothers for the crypts.”

Beron nodded soberly. “Of course, your grace.”

“Tell me when you’ve found the man. I will tell him exactly what they looked like.” _Before I forget._

 

* * *

 

That night, in the quiet of her chambers, Lyanna awaited her husband. She sensed he would come, though she had not invited him and indeed, had no intention of sharing her bed with him. But there was the matter of the gift to discuss, and the last shreds of her pride demanded he come to her, and not she to him.

She had been dressed in her nightgown, hair loose around her shoulders, and sitting upright in bed with a letter in hand when Arthur entered. It was an old letter she was rereading, one that Ned had sent her from his visit to the Vale a few years prior. He spoke fondly of Lord Arryn in the letter, and Lyanna hoped this meant the lord would be generous when it came to talks of loans. She watched Arthur as he all too comfortably undid the buttons of his doublet and laid it onto a nearby chair.

“I was glad to see your half-siblings leave,” Lyanna said coldly. Her husband did not offer an emotional response, and instead sunk into the chair where he had put his doublet. It was almost frustrating, to see how calm he was.

“They were eager to,” he responded with a shrug. He began to pull off his boots. “Rhaegar has had plans drawn up of the capital for years. He has waited a long time to see the new castle be raised.”

Despite herself, Lyanna was curious. “He is building a city and a castle?”

Arthur nodded. “At the heart of the kingdom. The city will be called King’s Landing, and the castle will be named the Red Keep. The lands around it will be known as the Crownlands; there will be new houses, and titles given to those who have been loyal to him.”

“Why didn’t you go with him to raise the city? You helped him win his throne.”

“I have a duty here, and a castle.”

“Winterfell will never truly be yours.” The stones knew their true masters.

“Perhaps not. But I am its lord, and you are my lady wife.” He moved toward the bed, eyes set steady on her. Lyanna read his intention quite clearly; when he moved as if to pin her to the bed, she halted him with the press of her hand to his chest. His lips were mere inches from hers, but he did not take the plunge.

“You are not to return to this bed until my moon’s blood arrives,” she commanded in a low whisper. “And only after it passes may you come to me. Once I am with child, you will never come again.”

“Then it appears I will be returning for many moons to come,” he remarked huskily. Lyanna tried to ignore the goosebumps that peppered her arms. “A slow pace like that is hardly enough.”

“I’d rather weather your affections once a moon’s turn than for nights on end,” she replied, indignant.

“You did more than weather my affections last night, my lady.”

Lyanna gritted her teeth at the reminder of her own shame. “A mistake we will not repeat again.”

Arthur pulled back until he was on his feet again. To her chagrin he began to pull his shirt over his head.

“I said you were not to return to this bed,” she said with narrowed eyes.

“I’m not here to lay with you. I’m here to sleep,” he replied gruffly. With his shirt half hanging on his arm, Lyanna saw his bared torso for the first time. His bronzed skin was stretched tight over sinew and muscle, a warrior’s body if she had ever seen one. Dark hair started at his chest and darted down into his trousers. Scars marred him, and at his shoulder was that still bloody bandage, Brandon’s favor.

“Was my meaning unclear?” Lyanna asked, unmoved. “I do not want you here at all.”

“I was told his was the lord’s chambers. Was I mistaken?”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. “You are. These are _my_ chambers.”

He paused in undressing to fix her with a stare that almost look defeated. “Is this it, then? Will our marriage be a sparring match?”

“It does not have to be, if you respect my wishes and leave me. I can hardly look at you without being disgusted,” she returned sharply, and with more venom than she had wanted to spare on him. She had it in her to be unkind, still angry and upset as she was. She wanted to hurt him, to make him feel a little of the pain she felt. Thus, her tongue, and her temper, swiftly got away from her, and heat crept up her neck. “The very thought of coupling with you makes me want to retch. The thought of sharing this bed with you makes me want to kill you where you stand, like you killed my brother. You think a noble title raises your status, that it makes you less of a bastard, less of a horrible creature, but it does you no favors. You cannot polish rust. And don’t look at me like that,” she hissed, noting how sorrow crept into his features, “as if you do not deserve my barbed words. I hate you, Arthur Dayne, and I will hate you until my dying breath. You and your half-siblings took my whole world from me. It does not matter to me that I steal your joy.”

As soon as she spoke the words, she regretted it. Not because the words were unkind, or because he appeared hurt, but because this was not a proper prelude to asking for Rhaegar’s coin. She forced her composure to return to her, felt it cool her blood and seep into her bones.

“You say you have a duty here,” Lyanna said in a more level voice, still trying to dissipate her rage. She moved off the bed to join him in the middle of the room. “I need you to prove that to me.”

Arthur’s mouth was still twisted in a grimace when he asked, “What do you need me to do?”

She looked up into his face, examined the crooked line of his nose and the scar on his brow. He looked a true warrior, in shape and form, and for the first time Lyanna felt small beside him. He was taller than her by nearly a foot, and certainly broader and stronger. He could have his way with her, and it would be futile to resist him. She wondered if he would ever attempt such a thing; the thought nearly frightens her.

Still, Lyanna had power. She had the North at her back. She had her name and her high birth. She had Winterfell. She was stronger than anyone within the walls of Winterfell.

“Winterfell’s coffers are light,” she began, “That single battle was not inexpensive, and now there are thousands of wounded in the winter town. They need medicine, care, and food. We will be able to afford it all,” Lyanna said this, knowing it was a lie, “but we need a little more to stay comfortable. I had thought since your half-brother was the cause of this difficulty, he might be able to give us some coin to help rebuild the North. Perhaps as a wedding gift?”

“Not as a loan, then,” Arthur noted. _Not so stupid after all._ “You should have asked this of me when Rhaegar was still here.”

“I was not aware of how dire the circumstances were then,” Lyanna returned, more sharply than intended. “Your half-brother should have made the gift regardless.”

“My half-brother left you with your castle, your lands, your nobility, and your name. Those were generous gifts.”

“You do not know the meaning of the word ‘gift’. Those were items in a trade. In return I had to marry _you_ ,” Lyanna fumed. “Forget it then, don’t help me. Don’t ask him for anything. I had intended on taking out a loan with Lord Arryn anyways,” she huffed. When she moved to turn away from him, he caught her by the arm and whirled her back around.

“I will ask him,” Arthur said in half a growl. “But I beg a little respect in turn. That is all I want from you.”

“Respect for the man who killed my brother?” Lyanna asked in disbelief.

“I gave your brother an honorable death,” Arthur insisted. “No tricks. No dragonfire. It was single combat, only he and I, sword against sword. He fought valiantly, and died well. I do not expect you to move past this; but you and I are wed now, and I would ask for the barest respect from you.” He licked his lips before he added in a smaller voice, “Please.”

Lyanna took the time to consider his words. It would be a lie to insist that Brandon would have preferred any other death. _I’ll not die unless it’s upon a blade_ , he had said to her, the eve before the left. _I will be burned from head to toe, but I will live long enough for them to cut my throat._ But that was Brandon, who had no fear of death. Brandon, who left her all alone. What did it matter how he died? He was dead, she was here, and that was that.

“I was in mourning when you married me,” Lyanna finally said. “I still am. You and your siblings didn’t have a care for my feelings, so why should I care for yours?”

“The wedding date was hardly my choice, my lady,” Arthur admitted, though he appeared sufficiently shamefaced. “But you are right. This marriage was not kind. Yet I have sworn myself to you, body and soul. You and I must live together now. I accept your hate and distaste for me, but allow me the small mercy of your respect.”

She could never forgive Arthur for what he did, never. She would never forget. Yet somehow, she must come to trust him, at least by some small measure. Respect required trust. “Only respect?” Lyanna asked carefully. “What of my obedience, my body, and my bed? Don’t you want those too?” Lyanna might have been inexperienced, but she was no fool. She saw the desire in his eyes, how he looked at her as if he were hungry. Last night had been a feast for him when she had intended to give him scraps. There was no doubt that he wished to devour her again.

“Only if they are freely given,” he finally said. “I will never ask them from you, not in any bargain.”

“Then I agree to your trade.” He let go of her and moved as if to leave, but Lyanna pulled him back. “This request of coin must come from you. You mustn’t tell him I asked it of you.”

“What passes between us will always stay between us, my lady,” Arthur said. He almost sounded wounded. “Our marriage is not anyone’s spectacle. Your pride and honor are mine to protect.”

“I do not need you to protect me.”

“No, you do not.”

Then he took his shirt and his doublet, and left her chambers. Alone again, Lyanna found herself still stuck in her ire. Her temper, her wolf’s blood, whatever it was, was of no help to her. It was permissible as a princess, resulted only in quarrels with her brothers and father and her own willful acts, but it would not do now as a queen. _I must be winter’s lady now, not a girl of summer,_ she told herself. _No more fire. I must become the cold in order to weather it._

If only her father could see her now. He would rejoice at such a sentiment, after he had tried so hard to cut away her willfulness as if it were as if it were a stubborn growth. She would become the princess he wanted her to be, the lady who would live for others and not for herself.

She slipped under the furs of her overlarge bed, suddenly missing her old, smaller chambers with its smaller bed. There was too much room here, and too many ghosts. But her old rooms were a maiden’s rooms; this was her place now. A large, empty cage where she would sleep as a woman, and not a maid. _No more girlish dreams of spring. It is winter I must think of, and that is all. Winter is coming._

It was the job of every King of the North before her to prepare for winter, and winter would always be coming. It was steadfast, cold, and miserable, and so she must be.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna finds a calling, and assigns Arthur one too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! This one is a little longer than I had initially planned, but I'm sure you guys don't mind too much :P

It would take time before maesters and healers arrived in Winterfell, and in the meantime, Maester Luwin was just one man. Lyanna saw him work tirelessly from morning till night, sending servants between Winterfell and the winter town to fetch him a new herb, or potion, or more clean cloth. There were thousands injured in the town, and Lyanna doubted he had even managed to help one hundred in a week’s time.

Those were the thoughts that drove her to wake up at dawn one morning and join Maester Luwin in his tower. He had been preparing some sort of concoction with a mortar and pestle, something green and fragrant.

“A simple poultice,” the kindly maester explained. “Best used for burns.”

“Will you teach me how to make some of these?” Lyanna asked him. Her eyes swept across all the corked bottles and the dried herbs he hung from the ceiling. She wondered how medicine making garnered only one link in a maester’s chain.

“Some of these potions are more difficult to prepare than others, your grace. However, I can teach you some simpler balms and salves.”

Lyanna had always loved flowers, and found them easy to tell from one another. Thus when Maester Luwin began to show her all the herbs he used in his preparations, she recognized a few and found the rest easy enough to distinguish. She spent those early hours with the maester, nodding along to his instruction. He was decidedly a more patient and likable teacher than the maester who had taught her as a girl.

When he felt her ready, they took the medicines and her new knowledge to the winter town, where Lyanna began to heal.

She had worn a tunic and trousers for that day, knowing that it would be a nuisance to walk around in a gown, particularly one that would quickly get dirty and stained. With her hair plaited back and a cloth wrapped around her nose and mouth-- for Lyanna did not forget the stench of rot --she looked as common as a serving girl.

The first man they helped was slouched against the wall in one of the packed homes. His head rolled on his neck, and his eyes fluttered open and closed. It was hard to see what was wrong with him straightaway, until Luwin pulled up the man’s shirt.

Lyanna nearly recoiled at the sight. The wound he took was right above his hip; it must have been clean once, but now it was yellow and red, with pus leaking out of it.

“Infection,” the maester explained. “It is common amongst many of these soldiers.”

“What can be done?” Lyanna asked, eager to learn, eager to help.

“We shall begin by cutting away some of the flesh. Then, we shall use maggots to eat away the infected flesh, then clean and dress the wound after. A woman outside already prepares the fire for the wine; fetch her here. The maggots are in a bottle in my saddlebag.”

Lyanna knew an order when she heard it. She nodded, then hurried to his horse to fetch the jar from his saddlebag. She tried not to look at what she was holding, though found it near impossible. The little white insects crawled along the wall of the jar, wriggly and gross; she could not help but shiver. She also found the woman in question, a servant Lyanna recognized from when she was young. The woman was older, stout, and ruddy faced. She poked at a fire, where a cauldron sat atop it.

Lyanna pulled down her mask to speak to her. “Forgive me, what is your name?” She asked.

“Minerva, your grace,” the woman answered.

“Minerva, the maester requires you. Is the wine set to boil?”

“It will be ready in time, your grace.”

“Please, I am only your lady now,” Lyanna said with a soft smile. “But you may call me whatever you wish.”

Lyanna and the woman returned to the maester, who had already begun to cut away at the rotting flesh. This was a far cry from her own childhood scrapes and bruises, and even her brothers’ cuts and broken bones, but Lyanna forced herself to look at him, at every harrowing detail. This was the result of war, of fighting. She owed it to the soldier before her to look at him rather than recoil.

“Hold down his arms for me, please,” Luwin commanded of them gently. Lyanna obeyed, holding the man’s right arm while Minerva held down the left. Then the maester slipped a cloth behind the wound, pulled out maggots one by one with a tweezer, and let them begin their feast on the infected skin. The man lapsed into consciousness long enough to scream. He tried to flail, but the women held strong against him.

“It is an uncomfortable feeling,” the maester explained over the man’s strangled shouts. “Not terribly painful, but unpleasant nonetheless.”

Lyanna nodded, and kept her grip firm.

After a while, the man slipped into a quiet, unconscious state. For a little bit, Lyanna  feared he had died, but the maester’s lack of alarm encouraged her to believe otherwise. After a time, the maester removed the maggots, returned them to their gross little jar, and closed it.

“The wine, Minerva,” Luwin said. The woman nodded and scurried outside; she returned shortly after with a cupful of hot wine, which the maester poured slowly in the wound. Not even this stirred the soldier. It at least allowed the maester to sop up the excess wine and bind the wound without any interruption. “This should heal well,” he remarked, his tone satisfied. 

“That took more time than I expected,” Lyanna noted. “Almost an hour, maester.”

He nodded. “It’s slow work, your grace. Your call for more healers was wise; more hands will lead to swifter work.”

“How many have arrived so far?”

“Only a few women with some experience in simpler wounds have been able to help. As for other maesters, none yet. We shall need them, though. Some of these burns require more than skill with a needle and thread.”

“I will see all of them treated,” Lyanna insisted. “It is House Stark’s job to provide in times such as these.”

“These people are lucky to have the wolves take them in,” Luwin said with a wry smile.

_ Not wolves. Wolf. Only me, _ Lyanna thought.

They went from one soldier to the next, healing or alleviating the pain the best they could. Lyanna soon learned that the first soldier’s case had been rather simple; there were others with much larger wounds, much worse rot. Some needed limbs or hands or fingers amputated. Many were burned, with some minor and others horribly extensive. The smallest burns required only Luwin’s green balm and a length of cloth. For those who were burned the worst, the maester could do nothing but give them milk of the poppy.

“They will die soon,” he had explained somberly. “I can only try and make the passing easier.”

One such soldier had his head in her lap, cracked lips barely able to form noise beyond moans of pain. Lyanna brushed what remained of his singed hair away from his face. His body had been burned, from head to toe, on his left side. He could not have been older than six-and-ten.

“Do you have a family I can send word to?” Lyanna whispered to him, hoping beyond hope for a reply. “Tell me their names, and the name of their village. I will send word to them, and your wages.”

The young man could not offer a response beyond a strangled moan. It almost sounded like a name-- but Lyanna could not be sure. That was the last sound he offered her, before he slipped away.

“He is in a place without pain, your grace,” Luwin said gently.

“At least he had someone hold him before he passed,” Lyanna murmured, a lump in her throat. “Would that I could have done more.”

It was tiring, depressing work, but it was work. It kept her moving, distracted, useful.

This continued day after day, with Lyanna waking up before dawn to dress and help Luwin prepare his medicines in his tower. After a week she had been able to consider herself something of a healer, at the very least a healer’s assistant. That had also been when the second and third maesters arrived with their understudies, as well as more healers. This relegated Lyanna to being little more than an errand girl, but she did not mind, so long as she could help.

The work in the winter town also kept her away from her husband and his southron host at Winterfell. She did not keep track of their activities and movements, and indeed, did not care enough to do so. It was a matter of concern, however, that when Arthur did find a chance to speak with her, he did not make mention of the wedding gift she’d asked him for. That was all the words she cared to exchange with him, instead of his idle chatter.

It was early evening when Lyanna was sent back to Winterfell to make more of a pain-relieving paste made of lavender, sage, and peppermint for Maester Luwin. When she rode into the courtyard, she was met with a strange sight: Arthur and his southerners, with dead animals in their hands and tied to their horses. They seemed to have just returned from a hunt.

Lyanna watched the men pull their kills off their sleds and horses-- hares, a deer or two, and a wild boar, dragged in a sled behind Arthur’s horse.  _ They went hunting? _ She thought curiously, before becoming irate.  _ I did not ask them to hunt. _

Lyanna dismounted, and marched over to where her husband stood by his kill, clearly proud of his work. When he caught sight of her he looked alarmed; the blood and other unsightly fluids on her clothes were undoubtedly unusual, along with her mussed hair, men’s clothes, and expression of irritation.

“Where were you?” Lyanna asked him in a curt voice. His retinue paused in their conversation to watch the two of them.

“The wolfswood,” Arthur answered in his southron intonation, seemingly unbothered. “I had noticed that your stores were low. I know you sent out a hunting party, but I thought I could help. I fear we did not accomplish very much.”

“Of course you didn’t. As you note, there is already a party out hunting. If I wanted you to hunt, I would have asked it of you,” Lyanna clipped. She had intended to explain her ire in excruciating detail until she saw his men snicker and stare.  _ Our marriage is not anyone’s spectacle, _ Arthur had hold her that second night. She reeled in her rage for the moment. “Will you come with me?” She asked him. He nodded, and followed her to Luwin’s tower.

“Have I upset you?” Were the first words he spoke when they reached the privacy of the still room.

“You should have told me that you wanted to hunt. I would have sent you with the hunting party,” Lyanna said as she moved around the room, searching for the herbs she needed.

“I only wanted to help,” he said, sounding wounded.

“The men I send on hunts know the wolfswood better than you. They know how much to hunt, they know when to stop so that there will be animals to mate and keep the woods populated. We do not hunt for sport, not in difficult times,” Lyanna explained irritably, finding the peppermint packed in a jar. “I would not dream of sending a second party when one is already hunting. It would be irresponsible. Surely you understand that?”

“I did not consider it. I’m sorry, my lady.” He sounded truly regretful, at least.

Lyanna sighed, exasperated. “I don’t want apologies. I only ask that you treat me as the lady of this castle, and communicate your plans with me. I cannot send one set of orders and have you contradict me.”

“Then treat me as the lord of the castle, and do the same for me,” Arthur returned firmly. Lyanna paused in her work to look at him. “What are you doing?”

“Helping the maesters with the injured in the winter town,” Lyanna said simply.

“Is that wise?”

“I have been doing this for a week now. Have you not noticed?”

“I don’t see you at all. You do not tell me of your activities.”

“I do not have to tell you. It does not affect you.”

“It does, as your husband and the lord of this castle. If I must tell you about my plans to hunt, then I should expect you to tell me of your own plans.”

“There is no sense in telling you when it does not affect much of anything, but very well  _ my lord, _ I am tending to the wounded in the winter town. Are you pleased to hear it?” Lyanna asked petulantly, emphasizing her ire by slamming the stalks of lavender hard on the table. Unfortunately, their being soft herbs, they made little noise.

“I only worry for your health,” he said softly, the lick of fire gone from his voice now.

“I am an able woman,” Lyanna returned, not so soft.

“I had only meant, should you be with child, that perhaps you are exposing yourself to things you should not.”

“Will you tell me to stop?” Lyanna challenged him, brow cocked. “You are my husband, not my master.” She shook her head, irritated. “In any case, my moon’s blood arrived five days ago. I am not with child, unfortunately.” She had been disappointed to see the blood on her smallclothes that morning. It meant her duty was unfulfilled, and her shame had been for naught.

“When can I return to you, then?”

“I will tell you when.”

A silence passed between them, only perturbed by the squelching sound of the herbs Lyanna had been smashing together. Still, Arthur did not depart. He lingered beside her; Lyanna wondered what else he wanted.

“What can I do to help?” He finally asked. 

Lyanna paused in pouring wine into the mortar to look at him again. He appeared sincere, if not a little exasperated. He had an honest face, Lyanna noticed. It was difficult to doubt his intentions. “What do you know how to do?” She asked carefully.

“I can make cloaks out of pelts. I can sharpen swords, polish armor and shields. I can make arrows and bows. I can train men in arms. I can fish, and hunt, and cook. I will do whatever you ask of me.”

_ The skills of a soldier.  _ Lyanna considered these options. “Can you mend houses?”

“I can learn.”

“The houses in the winter town are in disrepair. There are holes in the roofs. The walls need to be reinforced. There is broken glass that needs to be replaced.”

“I will do it, then. I will have my men help me.”

His lack of hesitation surprised her, as did his expression of honest eagerness. He was like an overlarge dog standing at attention, ready to fetch and deliver. “Good,” she said, off her guard. “There should be timber, stone, and tools somewhere in storage. Ask Lord Poole, he may know.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll do so now, my lady.”

He swept out of the room before she could make a final comment. Lyanna continued to crush the herbs; she stopped when she realized she forgot the sage, and cursed herself for the distraction.

 

* * *

 

The very next day, when Lyanna arrived in the winter town, she saw Arthur on a roof wielding a hammer, and shouting to his rather unenthused men below. They were bringing him timber, as another man who had joined him on roof rather uselessly held the nails he was using to patch the hole. Lyanna stopped to watch them a while, more amused than she should be. Arthur had them arranged like a well-trained regiment; each man was set to a task, either on this house or another. What they faltered upon was the actual mending and rebuilding. They would get the hang of it soon enough.

As Lyanna made her rounds among the wounded, Arthur continued onward with his work. She could hear him shouting across town, barking order after order, as his men hurriedly carried them out.

_ A commander in the field, and outside it, _ Lyanna mused.  _ A soldier even without a sword. _

When night fell, Lyanna mounted her horse to head back to Winterfell. As she trotted through the town, she came upon Arthur and some of his men, stopped to drink some wine. They were all disheveled, dirty, and their shirts soaked through with sweat. Beads of it ran down Arthur’s throat as he tilted his head back to down some wine. He had been working since early morning; he had earned his cup, she supposed. 

“A word, Arthur,” Lyanna called to him. Arthur look surprised to see her, but not unhappy. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, loped over to her, and leaned on her horse, honest face turned upward. “You shall come to me tonight.”

That frightening flame of desire came alight in his eyes. “I’ll bathe and come see you, then,” he said in a low, warm voice.

Lyanna nodded, then waited for him to get off her horse before returning to Winterfell.

 

* * *

 

She was bathed and dressed in her nightgown by the time Arthur arrived, also bathed and in his nightshirt. His hair was still wet, in fact, and falling into his eyes. He groaned as he fell into the overstuffed chair across from the bed, and poured himself a goblet of wine from the pitcher on the table.

“I did not invite you here to drink,” Lyanna said in a clipped tone.

“My apologies,” he grumbled, “would you like to drink with me?”

“No,” Lyanna said, still not trusting him enough to be even a little inebriated around him.

He shrugged and took a sip. He seemed to her entirely comfortable in the chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, goblet of wine held lazily in his hand. It was, however, not where he was supposed to be.

“Arthur, you know what I asked you here for,” she said, impatient and unwilling to spell it out for him.

“I know,” Arthur said. “But can’t we talk first?”

“I did not invite you--”

“--here to talk, I know,” Arthur cut in, finishing her words. “Viserys once compared me to a dog. He said I was obedient and stupid like one, and that is why Rhaegar kept me around. He was right on one point-- I am obedient. I need only to be told to do something once before it is done. When you asked me to mend those houses, I told my men as much. They called it peasant’s work.”

Lyanna chose to play along. “What did you say to that?” She asked.

“I reminded them who the Lord of Winterfell was, and if they would call him a peasant for doing this work.” There was note of pride in his voice, pride Lyanna felt was unearned.  _ That was not your title to have, _ she thought.  _ That belonged to Brandon. _

He took another sip of wine. “After all, the Lady of Winterfell was doing a servant’s work. I am not insulting you,” he added hurriedly. “It is admirable. It’s not often you see a noblewoman trade her skirts for trousers and wade knee deep in blood.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes, exasperated. “No, I suppose you’re only used to seeing noblewomen burn men alive,” she returned, seething just at saying it.

“Daenerys is kind. Her dragon is not,” Arthur returned, subdued. “It was her dragon, Vhagar, that killed your youngest brother and his archers.” 

Lyanna’s heart jumped into her throat. “I don’t want to hear this,” she managed to choke out.

“Lyanna, you must--”

“I command you to stop speaking of this. You are to join me in bed and do your duty.”

“Command me?” He asked. His tone was hard to place. He sat up straight, and leered at her queerly. “Those words suit your tongue.”

“It would suit me to have you do your duty and leave,” Lyanna said quickly, unsure of what to think of his words. She only knew that she felt uncomfortably warm beneath his gaze.

“Your brother commanded the archers from across the Trident--”

“I said I don’t want to hear this!”

“Should I command you to listen?”

Lyanna burned at the mockery. “Don’t turn my words into a jape.”

“Forgive me,” he said gently. “I am a commander too, you know. The warrior sort, not the ruling sort.  _ You _ are the ruling sort. Commands sound prettier on your tongue.”

His words made her think of Brandon.  _ He was a ruler, and a warrior, _ she thought.  _ What did that make his commands? _

Before she knew it, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, on her side. Lyanna drew her legs underneath her and eyed him warily.

“I am your dog, my lady. Allow me to speak my piece and I shall do whatever you ask of me after.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes to prepare for a fight, but already felt defeated. It was not as if she could force him to bed her and be done with it; if he wanted so badly to speak, then she had no choice but to let him. “Bark, then,” she said coolly.

“I want you to know what happened to your brothers on the Trident,” Arthur began calmly.

“I know what happened. They all died, and you helped kill them,” Lyanna cut in.

“You were not there, just as you were not there at the Field of Fire,” Arthur insisted in turn.

Lyanna knew of the Field of Fire, for Maester Luwin had cited it when he asked Brandon to consider kneeling. It had been three dragons against the Kings of the Reach and their fifty-thousand men. It was a quick battle, but too long for House Gardner. By the time they surrendered, the kings all died upon that field, and in their place, House Tyrell rose up and submitted.

“I was there for both,” Arthur continued. “At the Field of Fire, I had never seen a host that large submit so quickly; and how not? The dragons are frightening and fearsome. They killed so many in such a short time. Yet, our tactics upon that field were simple: trap them in the fire, and let them burn. Those who escaped will be killed in short time. It worked, and the story of the battle spread. Rhaegar thought the northmen would be prepared for a similar attack, and arrange their men differently.” Lyanna could not confirm nor deny this notion; her brothers shared nothing of their strategy with her, nothing of their preparations. “There was the Trident itself to consider too-- if we did not trap your men before they crossed the Trident, then they would have the water on their side. Your brothers thought that through. By the time we arrived, they had men both across and behind the Trident. King Brandon had been in front, with the cavalry. Prince Eddard to the far right of him, on horseback, with the footsoldiers. Prince Benjen behind the waters, with the archers. Their men began widely spread out.” Lyanna warmed at hearing their proper titles used. _ I was a princess then, _ she almost said childishly.

“The plan was simple. The dragons would make quick work of them all. Rhaegar did not want us to stage a strong attack; he wanted us to first hold our ground, then retreat, so as to put distance between us and the dragonfire. He would try and trap them.” Arthur furrowed his brows at the memory. “The archers struck first, and far. Vhagar took to the sky and rained fire down upon them. We stood our ground as the cavalry and army came running toward us. Rhaegar was to try and trap the footsoldiers. Viserys and Meraxes would begin the attack on the cavalry starting on the back lines.” Lyanna imagined, painfully, what this looked like, her brothers and forty thousand northmen on a field of fire. It made her throat burn. “The archers burned first. The footsoldiers second, after that part of our army broke and retreated to make escape the fire. The cavalry came in the strongest, attacked us before they could be trapped. They were quick too-- they cut through our ranks swiftly, making it too difficult for Meraxes to trap them. Our hosts were the same size by then-- twenty thousand to their twenty thousand. Men shared horses, and jumped down when they broke through our ranks to fight on foot. We realized quickly that the other two armies were a distraction, and this was our true battle.”

_ Oh Ned. Oh Ben. _ They never explained their plans to her. Now she saw why-- their fight against the dragons was never going to be much of a fight at all. It was a last stand.

“The northmen fought valiantly. Your brother Brandon was an able foe; he struck down soldier after soldier, slicing through them like butter. The dragons circled overhead-- the time for retreat was coming soon, and they would all burn, starting from the backlines.” Arthur ran a hand over his face, looking pensive. “Rhaegar was to give me a signal, and I would command the retreat. I received his signal-- Balerion blew a jet of fire into the air. I should have told my men to retreat. I did not.” He tapped his fingers against the goblet in his hand. “I thought that perhaps, if their king fell, the men would surrender. That is what happened with the Reach kings. I thought perhaps… Perhaps I could save them from dragonfire. Perhaps we could spare a few thousand lives.” His voice sounded almost tender, and his eyes took on a faraway look, as if he were hundreds of miles away on the Trident and not in Winterfell. Lyanna too felt as if that was where she stood, watching her brothers fall one by one.

“I met your brother on the field,” he continued. “He was a formidable foe. We managed to knock each other off our horses, and took to fighting on the ground. He was powerful-- he rained down blow after blow after blow. As I blocked them I felt myself stagger. I saw Rhaegar’s signal again. I knew I had to end it quickly. Your brother soon tired himself out, left himself an opening, and I took it.” Lyanna winced, trying not to imagine the sight, and failing. “He died upon my sword. Quickly, and cleanly. When the northmen saw him fall, their ranks broke and they shouted for a retreat. Some lingered to fight, too stubborn to surrender. But it was over then. The dragons did not harm the last of them.” He finally moved his gaze to her. “It was dragonfire or the sword, my lady. I gave your brother the sword.”

Lyanna looked away from him, and down at her lap. She did not know what to say, and even if she knew, she did not know how to say it. _ A death is a death, _ Lyanna thought.  _ Sword, fire-- what difference does it make? _

It made a difference to Arthur. And yet, she saw the burns upon the survivors. The ones with burns too widespread died within days, even with treatment. The ones with even the smallest burns suffered great pain. Dragonfire was evil, insidious. Yet Lyanna saw the result of wounds as well, wounds that were left to rot and corrupt. Limbs could be lost. Organs could die. There were no clean deaths, not really. There were only quick ones.

“Perhaps he would have died either way,” Lyanna finally whispered. “The only difference is that  _ you _ killed him.”

“I am glad I did,” Arthur remarked coolly. Lyanna’s head snapped up, and suddenly she was filled with rage. “A man looked him in the eyes when he died. A dragon would not. I heard his final word. A dragon would not. I have seen deaths upon the sword, and deaths by fire. I’d prefer the sword.”

_ Brandon said much the same, _ she almost admitted. He had no fear of dragons, but he wanted to fight men, not beasts.

“Brandon spoke to you?” Lyanna ventured to ask, too curious to let it pass.

Arthur nodded. “A single word,” he said. His eyes were warm and honest, and Lyanna wanted to believe that he was too.

She braced herself before she asked, “What did he say?”

He tilted his goblet toward her. “Your name. Lyanna.”

Lyanna felt her heart ache. _Did you think of how you left me alone in this world, Brandon?_ She asked his ghost. _Did you fear for me? Would you have chosen a death by sword if the man who wielded it would become my husband? Or would dragonfire have been easier then?_ _It would have been easier for me._ It was too late to ask, too late to wonder. 

“When did you know you would marry me?” Lyanna asked in a hoarse whisper.

“After the battle. Rhaegar promised me, that if you yielded, he would give me the North.”

“The North, and me,” Lyanna corrected. “The only sister of the king you killed.”

“Yes. A Stark king. All of my children will be Starks, too. I won the battle, but you won the legacy.”

“I never wanted this for myself,” Lyanna lamented, feeling mournful rather than livid. “This was meant to be my brother’s legacy, not mine.”

“I know,” he said solemnly. He reached out as if to touch her, but Lyanna quickly drew away. His hand felt back into his lap, idle. “Would you hold it against me if I told you I wanted this? My own lands. A title. Children who would rule in their own right. Things I did not have as a bastard.”

_ Things you do not deserve. Things you earned through me, and my grief. _ Lyanna balled her fists in her nightgown. “What about a wife who hates you?” She asked. “Did you want that?”

He smiled sadly. “No. I daresay I would have liked a wife who loved me. But I am a bastard, so I take what I can get.”

“And with both hands,” Lyanna added sharply.

Arthur appreciated that more than she wanted him to. He tilted her cup toward her, an amused smile on his lips. “And with both hands,” he repeated. He set the goblet down on the nightstand, then rose to his feet. “The story I told you was far from happy. I’ll retire to my own bed tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, if you will it, I’ll join you.”

Lyanna nearly opened her mouth to ask him to return, but she kept quiet. No, she was in no mood to lay with anyone, much less Arthur, after listening to the Battle of the Trident in more detail than anyone else had offered her. The heart ache he left her with made her wish she had someone to hold her, though. But she could not ask that of Arthur, not with when his hands were stained with her brother’s blood. She could not ask it of anyone; there was no one left who she could embrace her without shame, or feeling small.

“Go, then,” she said softly, her hair falling like a curtain between him and her. She kept her eyes on her lap as he exited the room. Viserys partially had the right of it-- Arthur was obedient, but he was not stupid. The thought did not bring her as much comfort as she hoped it would.

She curled up under her furs, eyes fixed on the open window across the room. She had wanted to be married to a man, not a dog. A northman, not a southerner with an accent. There were many things she wanted, however, things she would never get. She had wanted to see Ned and Benjen unburnt, as she saw Brandon. She wanted to know their last words. She wanted to know how long they hurt before they perished.

_ I pray it was quick, and with little pain, _ Lyanna thought, though a niggling part of her doubted it. Many burnt men had died before her eyes, all of them in pain.  _ It doesn’t matter, I suppose. You’re all dead, and I’m here. _

She would have done anything for their guidance, their love, their warm embraces now. She took comfort instead that they had died warrior’s deaths, that they were brave and strong and true.  _ Now I must live, and be the same. _

There were worse battlefields than a bed, and more terrible beasts than her husband. Her brothers had fought; now it was her turn to endure. Endure, and survive, and give them a nephew who would make them proud.

_ I should like to be Lyanna the Wise, _ she mused,  _ or Lyanna the Good. Which would make you prouder? _

She was speaking to ghosts, she realized, ghosts who could only listen, and never answer. Lyanna drew the furs around her tighter, trying fruitlessly to make the bed feel smaller again.

_ Perhaps I should get a dog. A big one, to sleep on the other side of the bed. _

A silly thing to think up when the North needed her more than any pup. Yet it was a softer thought than the ones that currently ran through her head, thoughts of fire and death and rot and blood. There was no comfort to be found in this bed, or in her station, or even in her own mind. That was just how things have been since her brothers rode out of the gates of Winterfell, and toward the Trident.

Lyanna squeezed her eyes shut, and tried not to dream of a field of fire.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna learns a little more about her mysterious husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before y'all read this, please check out this [beautiful fanart](http://marthajefferson.tumblr.com/post/166882771631/she-came-upon-arthur-and-some-of-his-men) @marthajefferson on tumblr did for the previous chapter. :') It's absolutely gorgeous, thank you Solenne!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter everyone!

__

_Lyanna._

She tried hard not to imagine Brandon whispering that word. She tried hard not to imagine him impaled at the end of Arthur’s sword, blood trickling from his mouth and down his chin as he whispered, _Lyanna_. When she closed her eyes she saw herself standing where Arthur should be, looking into her brother’s long face.

 _You left me all alone,_ she wanted to say. _How is this better than kneeling?_

She knew pride well. She knew why he fought, why he died. She knew why he wouldn’t kneel. He was proud, too proud, and always had been.

 _Ned would have kneeled,_ she thought. _Benjen would have kneeled._

But Ned and Benjen were loyal, and did what they were told. Lyanna did too. She stayed in Winterfell and prayed for them. While Brandon clung to pride, she had to forgo it.

 _They made me kneel, brother,_ she said to Brandon’s dying form. _Then they made me marry the man who slayed you._

It was strange, to taste resentment alongside sorrow and alongside love. It was made worse by her own guilt, born from the intimacy of her own betrayal. A man killed her brother, and she weds him and beds him anyways. What did that say about her? What did that mean for her own pride?

_You died with your pride, brother, but I must live without mine._

Still, she could not forget that her brother had whispered _Lyanna_.

These thoughts left her exhausted come morning. She had no energies for the winter town today, and did not want to lend a clouded mind and clumsy hands to the effort. Instead of her tunic and trousers, she wore a simple gown of black, unlike her more formal mourning gown. The extra skirts would only be a burden.

She made her way out to the courtyard, where she was met with the sight of Arthur and his southron host preparing for their day in the winter town. They had horses saddled, work clothes donned, and tools in their hands or holstered on belts at their waists. On the other side of the courtyard stood Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at-arms, who watched them from afar with crossed arms like a silent sentinel. She approached the knight, who greeted her with a bow.

“Your grace,” he said respectfully.

“Ser Rodrik,” Lyanna returned in greeting. “I hope the morning has treated you well.”

“Things get better with every day, I think,” he said with a small smile behind his beard. “It is good that your husband has set his men to a useful task. I had tired of them in my yard.”

Lyanna wanted to say that it was she who set them to the task, but let the detail go. It did not matter what people believed, so long as work was done.

“I have noticed that few train in the yard lately,” Lyanna returned. “You must be terribly bored.”

“Aye, it is to be expected,” he sighed. “No one is eager to pick up arms after a battle, not that there is much to pick up. Most of the men are dead, or have moved on to some place else. And, I fear, there are no princes to encourage them to train anymore.” He smiled for her sake, but it was a somber smile. “Your brothers were a joy to train, your grace. It was an honor.”

Lyanna nodded, and managed a sad smile of her own. “They flourished under your instruction, ser. There is no one finer to train a son of Winterfell.” These were not empty praises; Ser Rodrik was the finest of men, the finest of warriors. He had known her ever since she was a babe in arms, and his whiskered face was like a home to her. Thankfully, had not joined her brothers on the battlefield, seeing it as his duty to remain in Winterfell and protect the castle. He had a brother, Martyn Cassel, who had been the captain of the household guard, another man she had known since birth. He had joined her brothers on the Trident, and perished. “Ser Rodrik, I require your opinion on something.”

The knight nodded and fixed his hard brown eyes on her.

“Would you recommend your nephew, Jory, to take his father’s place as captain of the household guard? I’ve heard that he’s recovered well from the battle, and he has always been a fine warrior.” Jory was young, twenty years of age, and born in Winterfell. Aside from his father, he also had three brothers die on the field. _Like me,_ Lyanna thought.

“Young Jory,” Rodrik repeated the name in contemplation. “The past month has been hard on him. Between the injury, and burying his family, he has not been in the highest of spirits.”

Lyanna frowned. “You’re right,” she said hastily. This had been a folly. “It would be unkind of me to ask him to take on such a responsibility. No doubt he wishes to go--”

“You misunderstand me, your grace,” Rodrik cut in. He reached out a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I believe this offer would make him very glad indeed. He’ll need more training, perhaps, time to grow into the role, but my nephew needs a purpose to distract him, and an honor such as this would please him greatly.”

Lyanna felt herself slip into a smile, one of the few she’d had in a long time. “Really?” she asked, unreasonably excited.

Ser Rodrik nodded. “Aye, and I’m sure seeing your face would bring him into even higher spirits. The last you spoke to him, he couldn’t stop smiling for hours after.”

The last time they spoke, Lyanna had asked after his burn and his family’s remains. Not exactly light conversation-- but it warmed her to know that she had made him happy.

“Then I will speak the offer to him myself,” Lyanna said, still smiling. The sound of commotion could be heard over her shoulder; Lyanna looked back to see Arthur’s men upon their saddles, but Arthur kneeling before a group of children. He held his sword sheathed in his hand. “Ser Rodrik?” she asked, turning back to the knight.

“Aye, your grace?”

“Would you…” She tried to think of a way to say this. “Would you be willing to train me in arms?”

“Train you, your grace?”

“Yes, me.”

He paused before he said, “Your lord father forbade it.”

“My lord father is not here anymore, ser, and has not been for years,” Lyanna pointed out. “Please, it would make me so happy if you would teach me.”

An amused smile broke out behind the knight’s whiskers. “Here I thought the next Stark I’d train would be a son of yours. Very well your grace, if you can find the time, I will train you.”

“Thank you, ser,” Lyanna gushed, feeling like a child again. She heard the sound of excited gasps, and turned around again to see Arthur brandishing his sword in for the children. It was the first she’d seen the rumored blade-- it was a greatsword, made of the palest metal she’d ever seen. Even from this distance Lyanna could see that it practically glowed, as if a light came from within it. The children must have begged for a closer look, for Arthur stuck the blade into the ground and kneeled again, allowing them to crowd around it safely enough. “Ser Rodrik, what is that blade made out of?” she asked the knight, eyes fixed on the hilt of the blade, which was all that could be seen above the children’s heads.

“I asked him,” Ser Rodrik sniffed. “He said it was made from the heart of a fallen star.”

“That’s impossible,” Lyanna dismissed. She had heard this tale, yes, but found it hard to believe. “Could it not be Valyrian steel, perhaps infused with another metal?”

“It can’t be. There are no folds in that blade, no patterns. It thought it perhaps a sort of steel, but when he let me hold it, I found it lighter than steel. It felt the same as Ice.”

Ice was House Stark’s Valyrian steel greatsword. Lyanna had held the ancient blade before, and remembered marveling at its lightness. “You held his sword?”

“I… I wanted a look was all,” Ser Rodrik appeared a little embarrassed to admit it. “It’s a fine blade. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Me either,” Lyanna murmured. Arthur soon put the blade back in its sheath, stealing away its hypnotic light. He handed it to one of his men, who returned to the castle to put it away. She watched him long enough to see him wave goodbye to the children, mount his horse, and lead his men out of the gates of Winterfell. Lyanna pulled her gaze away from him, and back toward Rodrik.

“Ser Rodrik, will you show me what’s left of the armory?” She looped her arm in his. “I need your advice on what tasks I should set the smiths to.”

“Of course, your grace,” the knight returned, patting her hand.

 

* * *

 

There was so much she didn’t know. Ser Rodrik filled her ears about the state of the armory, told her numbers that she was not sure were good or bad, gave advice that she would follow because she had no ideas of her own. From what she had understood, the armory needed arms, though he prayed they would not need them so soon. She nearly asked him to communicate to the smiths what was needed, but he knew that was not his duty. It was hers; she was the Lady of Winterfell, and Winterfell’s needs were her concern. After Ser Rodrik, Lord Poole found her with the gentle reminder that there were letters in the solar that desperately needed answering.

“I am glad to see you away from the winter town and here with us, your grace,” were her steward’s words. “There are some matters that sorely need your attention,” he said, before more or less seeing her off to the solar. Lyanna found herself regretting that she had not gone to the winter town; she was sick to death of letters and missives and correspondences. Her hand cramped just thinking about it.

 _I have only been a ruler for a moon’s turn and I already tire of it,_ she lamented internally. _But that will not do. I must rule. Even if I find no joy in it, it is my duty._ She assured herself that this rush was a temporary thing-- after the wounded were healed, after trade picked up again, after everyone was in their proper place, matters would calm.

She made her way, rather unhappily, to her solar. Lord Poole had made an attempt a few days prior to explain some of these letters, of the meanings coded within them. Apparently no nobleman every spoke directly-- their true meanings were always hidden behind the courtesy in their words, where _“if it please you”_ actually meant _“you must do it”_ and _“I pray for your health”_ could actually be a thinly veiled threat. None of it made any sense ( _“Why can’t they just say what they mean?”_ ), but that was her fate now. Instead of a quiet and empty solar, however, Lyanna found Arthur instead, bent over something on her desk.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, suspicious.

He looked up quickly, surprised to see her. It appeared as if he had just returned from the winter town, his shirt soaked in sweat and hair disheveled. He had tracked in dirt into her otherwise spotless solar, but she thought of the many times she’d done the same and kept quiet her complaint. “I’m looking at a map,” he said simply, and pointed to said map. “Will you come look at something for me?” Still wary, Lyanna moved slowly to his side. There was indeed a map spread out on the desk, one that must have come from the solar. It may have been the same map she learned her continents and cities on as a child, though she could not say for sure. Arthur’s finger tapped at the Neck.

“What lives here?” he asked her. She thought he might have been quizzing her, but he appeared genuine.

“Alligators, perhaps?” Lyanna answered, baffled.

“Only alligators?” he asked suspiciously.

“Frogs too, I suppose.”

“Only animals then? No people?”

“Of course there are people,” Lyanna returned. “The crannogmen live in the Neck.”

“Crannogmen?” Arthur repeated, the word clearly foreign to him.

“Yes, crannogmen. They are northerners, but they live differently from the rest of us.”

“Different how?”

Lyanna opened her mouth to answer, but hesitated. It almost felt like she were betraying their secrets by speaking of them to Arthur Dayne. The crannogmen were loyal, had been loyal for thousands of years. They defended the Neck valiantly, though many despised them and found them distasteful. Lyanna never did. Her father told her they were northmen like any other, and therefore their people. “They keep to themselves. They are loyal men, and true,” she said simply, unable to say more.

Arthur tapped his finger on the Neck again. “Shadows attacked us here,” Arthur said solemnly. Once again, Lyanna wondered whether he was testing her or not. It seemed he was too honest to do that. “After the Trident, when we travelled north to Winterfell, we passed through here. It was all bog and swamp. We trudged through mud half the time. My half-siblings did not know of this, of course. They flew overhead.” Was that bitterness in his voice? Strife? Lyanna could not place it, but she listened intently. “There were parts that our horses would not cross. Or worse, some would fall in a bog, not knowing how deep it was, and were gone to us forever. That was not the worst of it. Then the shadows came.”

“Shadows?” Lyanna asked, unable to keep her curiosity quiet this time.

“We didn’t see faces,” Arthur explained, frowning. “Arrows flew from all over, yet we never saw an archer. They struck true every time. Men fell where they stood. We put up our shields, but it was not enough. Parts of the swamp were rigged with nets-- men stepped into them and were swept up into trees. When we stopped to cut them down, the arrows returned. These did not always hit their mark, but we learned that was intentional. Even a scratch was deadly. Their bodies seized up and they fell, motionless but alive. It was a poison, I’m sure. Some men fell into the bogs. We could not pull them out.”

 _The crannogmen did this,_ Lyanna realized. A warm feeling of satisfaction washed over her despite the expression of muted horror on Arthur’s face. _They fought them on a different front. Their front._

“Then some of us… Some of us used the northern prisoners as shields. Human shields.” He grimaced, and scratched his face as if the memory alone made him uncomfortable. “It was not honorable, but the men in shadows knew their own people. They stopped firing as often then.”

“How many did you lose in the Neck?” Lyanna asked, perversely curious.

He hesitated. “More than I’d like to admit.”

“Tell me.”

“Three hundred in under an hour,” Arthur finally said quietly. “We lost a hundred more before we escaped the Neck. We didn’t see a single one of your crannogmen.”

Lyanna almost flushed with pride. _The crannogmen did not fail us,_ she thought happily. _I must write to Lord Reed and thank him._

“Rhaegar did not mention this assault while he was here,” Lyanna said coolly, trying to hide her joy.

“Rhaegar missed it all, and was very ashamed by it,” Arthur returned with a shrug. “He did not expect it.”

“He could not have fought back, either. Not without setting his own men on fire,” Lyanna noted.

“Indeed.” Arthur was not overjoyed as she was, though she understood why. It had been a helpless moment, with no way to fight back. _So you know how I felt, the day I had to kneel._

“The Trident,” Lyanna began flippantly, “how many men did you lose there?”

Arthur pressed his lips together and avoided her eyes. _A shameful number, then._

“You know how many men I lost. Why can’t I know how many you lost?”

“It is a not a game of cyvasse, my lady,” he said sharply. “There is no pride in numbers fallen.”

“Cyvasse?” The word was foreign to her.

Still, he shook his head.

“I command you to tell me,” she said, before realizing how silly she sounded. Arthur raised a bemused brow; it only served to infuriate her.

“A command again?” He cracked a wry smile. “Even a dog would like to hear the word ‘please’ every once in a while.”

“Please tell me,” she tried instead, though her words sounded ungentle.

Arthur’s smile slipped away. “We arrived at the Trident twenty thousand strong,” he finally said. “We were thirteen thousand by the time we reached Winterfell.”

 _Nearly half of their host dead,_ Lyanna considered the number. _And that was with the help of three dragons._

The northmen were fierce; she always knew they were, but it brought her comfort to hear those words. _Would that we killed three thousand more, and called it even,_ she thought. It was a futile way to think, she knew. The southerners won, and they lost. It helped to hear what sort fight they brought with them, though.

“I came here for two reasons,” Arthur said, moving onto his new purpose. He held up a piece of paper that she had not noticed was in his hand before. “Rhaegar has written back to me.” Lyanna felt her hopes soar before she reeled them in. It would be just like Rhaegar to disappoint her, to twist the knife a little deeper. “He has offered forty thousand golden dragons for Winterfell’s coffers. A wedding gift, as you asked.” He extended the paper to her, which she took cautiously.

“Golden dragons?” Lyanna repeated, wary. It was the first she’d heard the term.

“Rhaegar has begun his own mint,” Arthur explained. “He will have gold, silver, and copper coins. Not dissimilar to your coinage, I suppose, but these will have his face on it.”

“Of course,” Lyanna remarked coldly. Their gold coins had direwolves on them; she misliked the idea of Rhaegar’s face on them instead.

“He also liked the opportunity to disseminate the coins quickly throughout the North.”

“I’m sure he did,” Lyanna added; she tasted the venom in her own words.

“I will write him back with a letter of thanks,” Arthur continued coolly; if he noted her ire, he did not comment on it. “Shall I include a note of your thanks?”

Lyanna pressed her lips together and swept soundlessly into the chair behind her desk.

“No, then?” Arthur asked, persistent.

“I did not ask him for the gift,” she said simply. She would not look into his honest face, not now. Instead, she focused on the letters she came to look at.

“My lady--” he began.

“What?” She clipped. “I didn’t. I asked you, and you asked him.”

To her surprise, he laughed. It was a warm sound that drew her eye. “You are stubborn, Lyanna,” he said, all too comfortable in using her name, “and proud.”

Lyanna moved her gaze from his smiling face and back to the papers on her desk. “You said you had a second matter?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.

“Yes.” His voice returned to its previous seriousness. He moved closer, to the side of the desk “My sister wrote me from Dragonstone, and asked if she may visit with the rest of my siblings. She is considering coming to live here.”

Lyanna furrowed her brows in confusion. “Daenerys wants to live here?” That didn’t make any sense-- moreover, she would never allow it.

“No, my true siblings, not my half-siblings,” he clarified. When she still appeared confused, he added, “I haven’t told you about them, it seems. I have three-- two sisters, and a brother. They stay at Dragonstone now. They have not decided if they wish to remain there, go to King’s Landing, or come here.”

Lyanna furrowed her brows at this new revelation. _Siblings?_ She marveled. Then a meaner, jealous part of her added, _Why does he get six when I have none?_

“What are their names?” she asked, curious despite herself.

“Younger than me by a year is Ali, my only brother. He is… simple, but he’s gentle. Then there is Ashara, three years younger, and Allyria, who is only eleven years old.” There was warmth in his voice, and love. Lyanna understood the tenderness all too well.

Then suddenly she thought of her wedding cloak, buried at the bottom of a chest. It was lilac, she recalled, with silver stars. Those were not Targaryen colors; there was not even a dragon on any inch of it.

“Who are the Daynes?” Lyanna asked.

“House Dayne is a noble house in Dorne,” Arthur explained. There was no pride here, just a simple statement of fact. “My mother’s house.”

“Their sigil?”

“A white sword and a silver falling star on a field of lavender.”

“You are Dornish?” Lyanna inquired, delving into even more confusion. Her cloak made sense now, but who was this man she married?

“Half,” Arthur corrected. He leaned back on her desk with his arms crossed as he spoke. “My mother was a Dayne. She was a traveler, and a warrior. She carried the sword I have now-- those who carry it are called the Sword of the Morning. The sword itself is named Dawn.”

Lyanna recalled the sword as she’d seen it those morning-- white, glowing, beautiful even from a distance. _Dawn_ , she mused on the fitting name.

“Your mother had a name too, I assume,” Lyanna was curious about the woman who carried such a sword before him.

“Alia Dayne,” Arthur said, a sad smile on his lips. “She came to Dragonstone, for she heard stories of dragon eggs, and wanted to see them. My father-- Rhaegar’s father, King Aerys, wanted to see Dawn. I suppose there was an attraction between the two. My mother stayed in Dragonstone for three years; in that time she had me and Ali. She would travel, return for some years to have Ashara, travel again, and return to have Allyria. She visited sparingly.” His voice was dispassionate now, not the same as it was when he spoke of his siblings.

“But wasn’t your father married?”

“To his sister, yes. Queen Rhaella.”

Lyanna had heard of this queer practice amongst the Targaryens. Brother married sister for generation after generation. The thought had always made her want to heave up her breakfast, for it made her think of marrying Brandon. She loved Brandon, but not like that.

“Did she approve of this… tryst?” Lyanna struggled to find the word for it.

“No, not at all. The queen did not love my father by any means, but she did not appreciate the slight. My mother stayed away as much as she could, out of respect.”

“But she kept her children there. She abandoned you to a woman who would not love you.” Lyanna could never imagine doing the same; if she had children, she would take them wherever she went, and never spend a day apart if she could help it.

“My mother was not the greatest of mothers,” Arthur admitted, looking shame-faced. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “She followed her heart’s desire. Unfortunately, my siblings and I were not a large part of that desire.”

“Why are you a Dayne and not a…” She struggled to think of the surname for Dragonstone bastards, if they even had one. Still, Arthur understood.

“My mother returned to Dragonstone a final time before her death,” Arthur reported grimly. “A great sickness had spread through Starfall-- House Dayne’s castle --and killed her whole family. She was ill too, but made the journey. She lived so she may give me Dawn. I was eight-and-ten. The Queen Rhaella was dead by then; she had died giving birth to Daenerys. King Aerys would live only a few short years after my mother died. When Rhaegar became king, he legitimized my siblings and I in my mother’s name.”

“So you would not have a claim to his throne,” Lyanna surmised plainly.

Arthur winced as if she had wounded him, but that had not been her intention. It was just an utterance of her theory. “Rhaegar had dreamed it every since he was a child that he would become king of all the kingdoms in Westeros. That included Dorne; if Dorne had submitted, I would have had Starfall. It would have been my own castle, with my own name, my own lands. But Dorne was not conquered, and instead I am here.” He sounded almost bitter-- but that didn’t make any sense. Winterfell was a better prize than Starfall.

“You would have been happy with that?” Lyanna asked, wary. “It is not even a king’s seat. Rhaegar gave you more power and wealth with Winterfell than Starfall could have ever offered you.”

“It would have been mine,” Arthur replied firmly. He straightened his spine as if defending himself.

“Are you unhappy with the gift of the North?” The idea almost irritated her.  _Someone_ benefitted from this marriage, and it was not her.

“It is not what I expected,” he returned quietly. “My ways are unlike your ways. There’s a chill in the air that never goes away, yet it’s supposed to be summer, and I am given glares everywhere I turn. Not even my own name will survive this place.” His bitterness built with every word, but Lyanna was not sure what to say. Should she comfort him? No, that would be undue; he was an outsider, would always been an outsider. She could not control how the northmen made him feel, or the weather, nor would she ever dream of giving up her name for his.

“But those are selfish thoughts. I got what I desired, and more,” he continued in a more hopeful tone, the bitterness from before vanished. “I have been given one of the largest castles I have ever seen, one of the oldest seats Westeros has known, and a title that carries great weight. I had once thought I would rule a small stronghold; instead I was given the North in its entirety. I suppose it all takes getting used to.”

 _A feeling I understand all too well,_ she thought. Regardless, she would not give him the comfort of her sympathy, not when he spoke of things there were not his birthright, and not his to take.

“I cannot regret that my children will be Starks with prospects better than I could have ever offered them as Lord of Starfall, or a lord of the Crownlands,” he added with a wistful smile. “They will be Dayne in blood, if not in name. One of them may even earn Dawn. That would be quite a joy.”

Talk of children immediately made her uncomfortable. Rather than continue this conversation, Lyanna cleared her throat and looked down at the papers on her desk. “So, your siblings wish to come here?”

Arthur cleared his throat in turn and straightened. “Yes. Will you have them?”

“They are your siblings. You are the Lord of Winterfell,” Lyanna pointed out.

“I know-- but will you have them?” Lyanna looked up at him. _He is asking my permission?_

“I suppose,” Lyanna mumbled. He broke into a full, honest grin.

“Then I will write her back immediately.” He moved as if to leave, but paused mid-step. “I would like to apologize for being uncouth last night.”

“Uncouth?”

“I told you a hard story when you did not wish to hear it. I had drunk a little too much wine. I had wanted to tell you the tale since I first saw you, but never found a proper moment alone.”

“You spoke your truth,” Lyanna said with a shrug. “I could have chosen not to hear it.”

“You were not glad to hear it.”

“I could never be glad to hear it.”

He hesitated. “No, I suppose not.” Instead of walking toward the door, he came toward her until he stood right beside her. Lyanna looked up into his ruddy face. His fingers brushed her jaw, then crooked under her chin and lifted it. “I wish I knew how to make you happy,” he said softly. Lyanna found herself caught by surprise, speechless at first, mouth parted dumbly. “We’ve been married a month, and I do not think I’ve seen you once smile.”

“You brought the unhappiness to my door,” Lyanna said. No, that’s not fair, she decided. He played a part in it, but it was not all his fault. “I have nothing to smile about,” she added in a gentler tone.

“I will find something,” Arthur insisted in turn. His thumb brushed gently over her chin. Then his hand dropped, and slipped to her hand where it sat upon the desk He pulled it to his lips; the kiss was light upon her knuckles. When he let her hand go, it stayed in its place in the air. He moved to the door.

“Arthur,” she called out as his hand settled upon the doorknob. “Come to me tonight.” Then, after a moment’s deliberation: “Please.”

He gave her a nod of understanding before he finally slipped away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna visits Old Nan, and receives a visit from Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have the best readers ever. For those interested in seeing what sort of amazing fanworks have been made and inspired by this fic, check out the [Hold On To Your Heart tag](http://lyannas.tumblr.com/tagged/hold+on+to+your+heart) on my tumblr. There's an [art piece](http://lyannas.tumblr.com/post/167201484279/joannalannister-arthur-dayne-lyanna-stark-by) there by @polar-biscuit on tumblr commissioned by my good friend @joannalannister, and [another art piece](http://lyannas.tumblr.com/post/167122749039/eliyadoodles-lyanna-walked-towards-them-a) by another good friend @eliyadoodles. I love you all so much :')
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to @marthajefferson, who not only made that lovely art I linked to in the last chapter, but also a couple of gifsets and she has made me a very happy gal. It was her birthday yesterday, so wish her a belated happy birthday!!!
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy the chapter! Beware the smut ahead, privately titled "Arthur knows how to lay it down" ;)

Lyanna was not sure what brought her to these rooms. She was lonely, she knew that much, and she wanted someone to share in her loneliness, someone who understood. She knocked before entering, and found an old woman sitting by the fire, her knitting needles still in her hands. She had her grey hair tucked into the scarf atop her head, and she wore all black. When Lyanna entered, the woman looked up and gave her a toothy smile.

“The princess comes to see me,” Old Nan said sweetly. “Does she come for a story?”

Lyanna smiled weakly and shook her head. “I’m not a princess anymore, Nan.”

“So I’ve heard. Yet you were never a little lady to me; you had always been a princess.” Old Nan gave a warm chuckle. Lyanna moved to her, attracted to her familiarity. She kneeled before the old woman as she had a hundred times before when she asked for a story. Only now, Lyanna had no want for stories.

“Did you hear what happened to my brothers?” Lyanna asked her. The old woman’s smile slipped, and she nodded. 

“I have outlived many Starks,” Old Nan said sadly. “So many. Yet, none of them grew old like me.”

“I’m sorry I did not come to tell you first,” Lyanna whispered. She reached out to hold the woman’s wrinkled hand. It was warm, and one of the greatest comforts she’d known in a long time. “Did you hear what the dragons did to me?”

Old Nan nodded again. “Aye. How is your southron husband?”

“Do you know what my husband did?” Lyanna pressed on, ignoring the question. “He killed Brandon.”

“In battle?”

“Yes. He fought him, and killed him. Then the dragon king married me to him.” She would never overcome her hatred for Rhaegar Targaryen, and what he did to her. She would never forgive.

“That is a familiar tale,” Old Nan said cryptically. “The same was done with the daughter of the last Marsh King, and many others.”

“What do you mean?” Old Nan always seemed to know stories and histories Lyanna never learned or never heard of. It often led Lyanna to believe she had made these stories all up-- but as she grew, she knew better. There was always a grain of truth in Old Nan’s tales.

“When the Stark king killed the last Marsh King thousands of years ago, he took the Marsh King’s daughter to wife. That is how the Neck came to be part of the North, princess,” Old Nan explained patiently.

Lyanna felt incensed on this daughter’s behalf, but kin to her too. She wondered if this daughter wept as she did after being bedded by her husband, mournful and angry tears. She wondered if she ever came to see her husband as something other than the man who killed her father. Lyanna would only ever be able to wonder.  _ Why don’t they write stories about these women? Why do they only write stories about the kings who bed them? _

“It is not fair,” Lyanna said with more rage than she wanted to betray. “Daughters should not marry their father’s slayers, nor sisters their brother’s slayers. Why are girls so easily traded away?”

“Girls have their father’s blood,” Old Nan said gently. “And you, my dear, have the blood of Stark kings, blood more ancient than this dragon king’s.” Old Nan gave her hand a squeeze. “It is no wonder they desired it so.”

“And what sort of children would a bastard’s blood and a king’s blood make?” Lyanna asked evenly as she tried her best to keep her unhappiness out of her voice. “Will they be children I can love? Children the northmen will follow?” This was a silent and haunting fear; she knew she wanted children-- no,  _ needed _ children in order to continue her line, yet nightly she wondered if she were damned, and her children too, for the marriage she had agreed to. “What if my children are more Targaryen than Stark?”

Old Nan was quiet as she mulled over such heavy questions. “Is he a gentle man?” she asked simply.

“Yes,” Lyanna admitted softly. Arthur had not forced his will on her, nor had he spoken to her or treated her harshly. She almost wished he did, so she could hate him more fiercely. “But it is not fair that I am married to him. They gave me no choice, but I am damned for it.”

“Damned, little princess?”

“Yes. I’m damned. Cursed. I lay with my brother’s killer.”

“The Starks live on through you, child.”

“Why me?” This was the heaviest question of them all. “Why me while my brothers died?”

“Because the gods willed it,” Old Nan said softly. Lyanna moved closer to her and set her head on her knobby knee. It felt heavy from the weight of the thoughts that filled it. The woman smoothed down her hair the way she did when she was little. Lyanna closed her eyes at the touch, glad for the familiarity. “It was a bastard that continued the Starks, many years ago.”

Old Nan was taking on a tone for a story. “No stories, Nan,” Lyanna whispered.

“This one is true,” Old Nan persisted. “Do you know the story of Brandon the Daughterless?”

Lyanna sighed and shook her head.

“There was a Brandon Stark that had a single daughter,” Old Nan began, her voice sounding the way it always did when she told a story. Lyanna felt like a child again, sitting at attention to listen-- only now she had no brothers to sit with her. “One day, a man who called himself Bael the Bard came to Winterfell and amused the king with a few songs. He was a wildling, that one, but talented with his voice. The king asked how he could pay the bard; Bael responded that he wanted a single winter rose, like the ones grown in the glass gardens of Winterfell.” Lyanna knew those roses well-- they had always been her favorite. She tilted her head to look up at the woman as she spoke, her attention captured. “‘You shall have it,’ the king said. But the next morning, Brandon’s daughter was gone, and in her bed laid a single blue rose. They searched and searched for her and the bard. This Brandon was mad with worry, for his daughter and his line. There were no Starks to take up his mantle after him. Then a year later, they found the girl back in her bed, with a little babe suckling at her breast. A son.” Old Nan smiled. “They had been hiding in the crypts the whole time. King Brandon accepted this boy, and named him his heir.”

“He was a bastard,” Lyanna whispered, surprised.

“Aye, a bastard. But the king had no choice, and he was his daughter’s son. King’s blood, princess, remember?”

“Did she love him? Bael?”

“They say she did. But this tale has a sadder end.”

“What happened?”

“Bael was king of the wildlings, you see. He took his army south, to raid and conquer, but met his own son in battle at the Frozen Ford. Bael recognized the boy as his son; the son did not recognize his father. Bael allowed himself to be slain, unwilling to raise a sword to his own son, and the wildling army broke. The young king returned to Winterfell with his father’s head. When his mother saw the sight, she threw herself from the rookery.”

Lyanna frowned. Too many of Old Nan’s storie ended this way. “Does this daughter have a name?” she asked.

“It is lost to the ages, princess.”

_ The savior of her line, yet none could remember her name,  _ Lyanna thought.  _ Will that be me too? _

“That was a sad tale, Nan,” Lyanna finally said. Old Nan patted her shoulder in comfort.

“I’m sorry, princess. I did not mean to add to your grief.”

_ Yet it rings true. _ It was a bastard she was wedded to, and a bastard who would give her sons, the next Lord Stark. Only she did not love this bastard, like this Stark loved Bael. It was not her son who killed the one she loved, but her husband who killed her brother.

_ Close, but not the same. _ Lyanna knew her duty, and knew she could not shirk it.  _ Will I be as sad as Brandon the Daughterless daughter, forever? I cannot throw myself from a tower. I will never do that. Not when my people need me. _

“Your kingly father always asked me to tell you stories of girls who did their duty. Do you remember those stories, princess?” Old Nan asked kindly, now petting her hair.

“Yes,” Lyanna mumbled, with leftover indignation from those memories. “Stories of girls who did not ride horses, girl who did not carry swords, girls who married and had ten children… I always knew father made you tell them.”

She cackled. “Aye, I knew you did, clever girl. Did they ever scare you off horses or swords?”

“No. They only made me want them more.”

“Well, soon enough, your little ones will be coming to me for stories, and I’ll tell them whatever you want them to hear.”

_ My little ones. Old Nan seems to think I want more than one. _

Lyanna sighed. “I want you to tell them how brave my brothers were,” she said after a moment of thought. “But tell them happy stories, too. Stories of spring, of love, of good harvest...” She trailed off, unable to think of more happy things. “Am I damned, Nan?”

“You did not have a choice, princess.”

“I did. I could have died instead. Thrown myself from a tower, like Brandon’s nameless daughter.”

“And bring an end to the Starks? I could not imagine the North without them.”

“There is only me.”

Old Nan gave her a sad, toothy smile. “You did what you must. Who you lay with makes no difference to the gods. Your death would have been an empty sacrifice.”

“Then why do I feel so guilty?”

“Sorrow is a heavy burden.” Old Nan looked away from her and to the empty fireplace. For a moment, it seems to Lyanna that there were tears in her rheumy eyes. “I ask myself the same things. Why did I live while my sons and daughters died? While many great Starks died around me?”

Lyanna felt for the old woman. Nan had two sons-- Walys and Jonnel. They were much older than Lyanna, but permanent figures at Winterfell. One tended to the horses and the other was a hunter-- and both died at the Trident.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Guilt ate at her worse than before. “I should not have come to you with my sorrows when you had your own.”

To her surprise, Old Nan chuckled. “Your gentle heart tickles me. It makes me glad to see you did not grow out of it.”

_ I am not so gentle, _ Lyanna almost said.  _ I care, that’s all. _

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Lyanna asked her, squeezing her hand. “Is there a home you want to go to? Family you may live with?”

The old woman shook her head. “I would like to stay in Winterfell, princess.”

“Of course. This is your home.” Lyanna rose to her feet, and kissed Old Nan’s wrinkled cheek. “Thank you for the company. I’m so sorry about Walys and Jonnel.”

Old Nan patted her hand. “Take care of yourself, princess. Come see me more often-- and when you have little ones, you must show them to me.”

Lyanna nodded.

 

* * *

 

Unlike the last time, Arthur slipped off his shirt before meeting her in bed. He sat next to her, eyes fixed on her instead of to the ceiling the way her eyes were. She wondered if he expected a command, or some form of encouragement. Instead of moving atop her, he sighed in place.

“Why do you hide under there?” he asked, possibly referring to her place between the furs.

“I’m waiting for you,” she explained patiently.

“Last time I bedded you, you wept.”

Lyanna felt her embarrassment return. “It was not for pain.”

“For what, then?”

_ Shame. Grief. Guilt. _

He sighed again, then moved so that he was on his side, propped up by his arm. “I will not begrudge you your secrets. But I would like to hear your voice, and learn what you want, and what you like.”

“I want a child. A son. That is all,” she said softly. “What I like does not come into it at all.”

“But it does,” he said. “There are many ways to make a child.”

“There is only one,” she insisted in turn. The gaze he paid her was hotter than the sun, and she burned under it. “Do it, then let me be.”

“You summon me here out of duty, not lust,” Arthur observed. “And yet, when you gave me leave to touch you as you wish, you responded with your lust, not your duty.”

“A mistake,” she said firmly.

“No, not a mistake. The gods gave us this simple act as the only free pleasure in life. Between a husband and wife, it is sacred.”

“I did not summon you here for a sermon, septon.”

“ _ You _ are sacred. You will be the one to carry our children. You should be honored for that,” he continued, ignoring her curtness. “You will be unhappy no matter how you lay with me. Why deny yourself pleasure when it’s offered?”

“Because I have no right to it,” she insisted hotly. “Because you are my brother’s killer. Because you cut down my countrymen. Because you helped the Targaryens conquer the North. Why should I be allowed to take joy from you when you have caused me so much grief?”

“It is only you who disallows it,” Arthur said solemnly. “I want very much to make you happy.”

“Then do your duty, and be done with it,” Lyanna said, exasperated.

“It is my duty to please you.”

Lyanna was unsure how to respond to this incessant line of conversation. It was too easy to give into what her body wanted, for even now she felt that same attraction she had felt on their wedding night, exacerbated by the fact that he had shown her a side of coupling she did not know existed. Her body did not have a care for her heart, or even her mind. It had reacted to him naturally, easily. The shame that followed after came from her heart.

_ For once a moon’s turn, I can imagine him as someone else,  _ she told herself.  _ For one night, he does not have to be Brandon’s killer. He can be my husband. _

It would not keep the shame at bay forever, but it would help. She took a measured breath and pushed away her furs. When she snaked her hand up his arm, his body responded immediately to her; he moved onto his side and inched closer. He let her skate her hand across his chest, his middle, moving slower over the hair and muscle. When the shame followed her lingering gaze, she cast it away. She had to have a child. If she were condemned to perform this act, then why reject her own instinct?  _ Who you lay with makes no difference to the gods--  _ that was what Old Nan said. Lyanna must believe that, if only for the night.

Her hand paused at his elbow. She stared at him expectantly, unsure of where to go from here. Arthur took the hesitation as a cue to start his own gentle ministrations. He began with a kiss, soft and gentle upon her lips. The kiss grew and grew until all she could think of was the taste and smell of him-- salty, with a man’s musk. He had bathed, and the smell of lye soap was upon him, but the sweat of a worker, a warrior was still on his tongue. He drew away from her for a moment, and Lyanna found herself wanting to follow his mouth. With her hand still on his arm, he unlaced the front of her nightgown and drew it slowly over her shoulders. The cool night air wafted in from the open window and danced over her exposed breasts; Lyanna shivered.

“If you wish to stop, tell me,” Arthur said softly, perhaps mistaking her shiver for hesitation.

“Keep going,” she murmured, her blood already humming.

She had known for a long time that men were more than fond of her breasts. They were small things, yet she had noticed the stares of the lusty and the unabashed upon them ever since she had started growing them. Arthur’s stare was no different, she supposed, only there was a vow of marriage between them. He could look, if he liked. When he reached out to cup one of them in his hand, she decided he could touch them as well.

His thumb scraped over the tip of her breast, a hard callous rough on that sensitive skin. She gasped, caught again between that strangled feeling between pleasure and pain. When he replaced his hand with his mouth, she gave a soft whimper and curled her fingers in his hair. He suckled on her gently, as his hand went to her other breast to give it equal attention. Though his touch was gentle, light even, it beckoned the return of that still frightening warmth between her legs. She had been keenly aware of it, of how there was a heartbeat there to match the one in her chest.

Without consideration, Lyanna pushed his mouth away to look back into his face; their noses bumped. She took Arthur’s hand from her breast and guided it to between her legs. Arthur’s gaze darkened with his desire; as he slipped his hand down the front of her smallclothes, he covered her mouth with his own again and swallowed her moans.

Just as on their wedding night, he touched and stroked her until wetness pooled between her thighs. When he ventured a finger inside her, she did not stop him. Lyanna wanted to learn this feeling, she realized. She had been drowning in lordly duties and the lessons that accompanied them, but none of it brought her pleasure. It had been like being tutored as a child again. But this— these bed lessons were a far cry from anything she had ever been made to sit down and learn. Arthur’s fingers scattered away the tension of the day and introduced her to something new, something that turned her whole body alight.

Like the first night, when he had used his mouth, Lyanna felt that wave of keen, sharp pleasure wash over her, pushing her over some invisible edge. He chose that moment to lift his lips from hers. The cry she heard was a noise foreign to her-- yet it was hers, shameless, loud, desperate. She dug her nails into his arm and the back of his neck; without her volition her thighs tightened around his hand. 

“Arthur,” she whispered, half-pleading. She could hardly keep her eyes open. Her husband responded with a groan, and a squeeze to the inside of her thigh that made her echo him.

His hands moved to her waist and, to her surprise, he pulled her atop him, to where her legs straddled his hips. The world slowed down then. Arthur’s hands skated up her thighs; his rough callouses scratched at her skin, yet somehow the feeling pleased her. Too many things he did pleased her, the skillful lover that he was. She wondered idly how many women he had before her, how many lessons it took for him to learn how to undo his lovers the way he did with her.

Instinct begged her to pull her open nightgown over her head and discard it. The cool night air nipped at her warm body, caressed her like her lover. She again sided with instinct, responded to his arousal hard between her legs by unlacing his trousers. Arthur’s capable hands were a guide upon her hips; they showed her how to sheath him inside her, and how to ride him. The discomfort from the first night was a distant memory; she could not bite back her moans, especially not when Arthur pulled her down, and her hair and her breasts scraped against his chest as he pressed warm kisses to her neck. When the movement of her hips grew erratic, he returned her on her back. He grunted in her ear, in time with each snap of his hips; he was fervent, she realized, not fully in control. His desire for  _ her _ rolled off him in waves.  _ I am doing that,  _ she marveled in a half-dazed state.  _ He feels this for me.  _ When he thrust home, Arthur sealed the moment with a final kiss.

He rolled off her, and Lyanna waited for the shame to fall upon her. Instead she felt an unfamiliar relief. Her mind had been scrubbed clean of heavier thoughts— only for now, she assumed. Only for the night. Tomorrow morning the shame would surely arrive, and with it the stressors of a new day.

Lyanna’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling, arm thrown across her forehead when Arthur reached for her again. She did not know whether to resist or not, but he drew her close, hand firm upon her waist, until it reached up to cup her face.

“No tears tonight,” he murmured with a smile. “Does that mean I’ve gotten better at it?”

“The tears were never for you,” Lyanna returned plainly. “Did you forget that I buried my brothers the day before you wedded me?”

Arthur reddened and his smile faded. “I’m sorry. It was only a jape.”

_ I don’t know how to laugh anymore, _ she almost said.  _ I barely know how to smile. _

His thumb idly stroked her cheek. She found herself deterred by the intensity of his eyes and cast her gaze downward, to where his manhood was soft against his thigh, nestled in a thatch of thick, dark hair. It was a strange thing to consider that it had been inside her twice before, yet this was the first she’d seen it.  _ So that is the simple difference that makes you my lord and master, and me your wife, _ she mused.  _ The one difference that makes you Lord of Winterfell, and me its lady. The one difference that kept me from dying with my brothers. _

She hated reflecting on her womanhood. Being a woman never earned her any favors, yet it was the single thing that had saved her house. The blessing between her own legs would be what continued the Stark line. All the same, she would pray for a son. The world would honor him better that way.

“What does it mean to be Sword of the Morning?” Lyanna asked as his thumb traced her lower lip. He had made brief mention of it, of carrying Dawn and a son earning the sword, but she did not inquire further at the time. Now she found herself curious, desirous of learning more about the man she had just shared her body with.

“It means you are a knight worthy of carrying Dawn,” he answered solemnly. He seemed always to take on a serious mein when discussing the side of the family he knew so little about.

“The blade is not passed down to next of kin?”

“No. It must be earned.”

“Who decides who is worthy?”

“Everyone. You must prove yourself.” Arthur’s hand trailed down to her neck, where his thumb stroked her throat. “My mother knighted me when I was four-and-ten, at an age when most boys were still squires. I was stronger and faster than men who had more years and muscle than me. I had been raised to fight, and proved better than everyone-- my mother included.” He did not sound like a braggart, for Lyanna knew it must be true. All the battles he’d won, all the men he had killed; Lyanna had once thought Brandon was the greatest warrior she’d ever seen, yet it was Arthur Dayne he fell to.

His hand had moved to lift her wrist to his lips. “When my mother returned to Dragonstone that final time, she gave me the blade and the title,” he murmured against her pulse. “Had I not been worthy, she would have asked me to guard the sword and little more.”

_ The Sword of the Morning. _ It was a dashing title, she had to admit. 

“So, before you were Lord Arthur Dayne, you were Ser Arthur?” she asked. 

Arthur found that amusing and chuckled; his breath tickled her wrist. “Yes, I was Ser Arthur.”

“Ser Arthur,” Lyanna repeated, surprised at how easily it rolled off the tongue.

“Mmm,” was the only noise he made as he kissed her wrist. Then his mouth moved elsewhere, to her mouth, and kissed her long and sweet. Lyanna could not resist the warmth and taste of him; she wanted to drown in it, in kisses and bedding him, all shameful things she shouldn’t enjoy with him. “You’re a joy to kiss,” Arthur whispered against her lips when they came up for air. “Have you practiced before me?”

“Never,” she exhaled; she felt almost dizzy, was made dizzier still by his lazy smile.

“Eight-and-ten and not a single kiss?” He sounded surprised.

“I had three brothers who made it very difficult for someone to kiss me.”

“From what I saw of your eldest brother, I would have been afraid to kiss you too.”

It was strange to hear him speak of Brandon, especially with such ease. Arthur had killed him— honorably, yes, and in the way that he wanted to die, but he had killed him nonetheless. Brandon’s ghost was like a veil between the two of them, an everlasting reminder. Old Nan told her it did not matter to the gods who she lay with, told her the guilt would never go away, yet she could not find the comfort she wanted to find in those words.

_ My body betrays me,  _ she lamented.  _ I hate him for what he did to me, but love it when he touches me. Why? _

Arthur’s knuckles caressed her arm, his dark gaze upon her lips. She reached out to brush his hair out of his eyes, to look into those unusual colors. She wondered if her children would have purple eyes like this. When she laid her pale hand against his bronze chest, she wondered if her children would have dark skin like this. _What strange Starks they would make,_ she mused. Yet, as foreign as he was, and as different as they were, he still brought out a warmth in her. Even now, as she fought at guilt with tooth and nail, she wondered how it would feel to have those muscled arms around her, holding her and smoothing her worries away.

_ This is lust. It is a madness that will pass.  _ She squeezed her eyes shut, withdrew from him, and forced those warm and lustful feelings to pass.

“You may leave now,” Lyanna said softly after opening her eyes again. She was in a proper place now, back to the present. The battle of the bed was over; now it was Lyanna’s turn to hold her ground.

“Am I being given a choice?” he asked.

“What reason do you have to stay?”

“To sleep beside you. To wake beside you.”

_ To fill the empty space in the bed, _ she added internally. “That goes beyond your purpose here,” she said instead.

“Perhaps. But it is my right.”

There it was, that reminder that he was her master, her conqueror, and she was meant to submit. When Lyanna chose to fight back, she wondered if the Marsh Princess ever did the same to her husband.

“Do you view my body as your property, my lord? Do you own me?” she asked, her voice as sharp as Valyrian steel.

“Not at all,” he replied, visibly alarmed.

“Then I shall ask you to leave. You performed your duty, and I have no more use for you tonight.”

“You may yet still have a use for me,” he said. His hand trailed down to her bare middle. His knuckles brushed right below her navel, and goosebumps followed. “Give me a little time and we can make a second attempt at a child.”

The offer was tempting-- but no, she could not let herself be ruled by desire alone. The deed was done. She could not loosen the knot of her promise, lest it all fall apart.

“It is time for you to go, Arthur,” she said firmly, and pushed his hand away.

He gave a soft groan of exertion as he sat up. He remained perched on the edge of the bed, his back to her as he stretched his arms above his head. His back was as tanned and muscled as the rest of him, complete with white scars here and there. She wondered idly how many cuts he’s taken over the years, how many times he’s bled. It seemed to her that he was a man built for survival, trained to win. She had thought the same of her own brothers once. He pulled his nightshirt over his head, and his back disappeared behind the white cloth.

“I will see you in the morning, then,” Arthur said once he was at the door. Hearing those words aloud were a strange comfort to her. Too often she felt that her life ended with every night, and that waking in the morning was a strange and cruel agony. It felt to her that sleep was only ever her respite.

“Yes,” Lyanna agreed. “There will be a morning.” 

“There is always a morning,” he returned with a gentle smile, before he left her alone.

_ There are no more mornings for my brothers, _ she thought somberly.  _ But there are many more mornings for me. There must be. _

Damned, or cursed, or whatever she was, Lyanna would rise the next morning, and every morning after, and be glad of it. She had to-- she did not want to be a nameless daughter, known only for her womb and her sorrows. She did not want her legacy to lie with her husband. She did not want to submit to guilt the way she had submitted to Rhaegar Targaryen.

Perhaps who she laid with did not matter-- but she would make sure that Lyanna Stark did matter. She would make history remember her name.

That night, she slept easier than she had most other nights, and dreamt she sat on a weirwood throne, with a direwolf at her feet and a bright sword in her hand.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna trains as a fighter, and a ruler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being amazing! And sorry for the lack of Arthur in this chapter! Don't worry, we'll see him again in the next chapter, along with some others :)
> 
> (Oh, and the dub con tag was added as per a request, it's not anything that features in this chapter or the chapters to come.)

“Keep your arm up, your grace,” Ser Rodrik called to her. Despite the ache, Lyanna obeyed, and raised the arm that had sagged from holding up her shield. “It is easier to block when you catch the blow sooner.”

Lyanna had wielded tourney swords and wooden swords before this, but not shields. Her training at arms had largely consisted of a game of sticks with her and Benjen, and the occasional lessons from the times that Brandon had humored her. Her father had always forbade all of it, but even after her had passed, no one, not even her brothers, had offered to spar with her or teach her to wield a sword. Even when she begged and bothered them, they insisted that she would make a poor sparring partner. They needed to be warriors, after all, and Lyanna only wanted to learn for sport. But now that she was being taken seriously, Lyanna received the lessons with equal weight.

Jory gave her a look that seemed to ask for permission before he brought down a blow on her shield. It wasn’t much of a blow, and his forewarning made it all the more underwhelming. Lyanna sighed, and dropped her arm.

“Jory, you mustn't be gentle with me,” Lyanna said sternly. As sweet and loyal as Jory was, she needed him to be a little less sweet with her.

“Aye, Jory, you do her no favors,” Ser Rodrik echoed.

“Apologies, your grace,” Jory stammered in return. A blush, not just from exertion, colored his cheeks. “It is difficult to do otherwise.”

“Why?” Lyanna asked as she raised her shield again. “Because I’m a woman?”

“Well that, and you’re my queen,” Jory admitted sheepishly.

“First, I am your lady, and not your queen. I do not like it anymore than you, but we all must get used to it.” She swung her sword at Jory, who blocked with his shield. “Second, I know my brothers being princes never kept you from sparring hard with them.” She swung again, and managed to hit his side, but it did not feel earned. “And third, Jory, if you do not stand opposite me, then no one will. You were the only one who answered my call for a sparring partner, after all. I need you to be the very best.” She swung her sword again, where this time it met his, and metal rang throughout the yard.

Winterfell’s other men loitered around them, all of them apparently too frightened to raise a blunted sword to a woman smaller than them by inches and stones. She should have expected as much; for all their loyalty and their love, they all thought like her father had. Women, least of all a woman of Winterfell, did not need to carry a sword. Lyanna was not like the Mormonts of Bear Island, who had to fight back against the Iron Islanders who came to raid and to plunder. Stark women sat safe in the heart of the North, in the strongest castle for thousands of miles, and never had any lack of Stark men to protect them.

But there were no Stark men, not anymore. Lyanna was a woman alone, and though she had protectors in her guard, she trusted herself above any others. She could not take to the field and wage battle, perhaps, but she wanted to carry a sword at her hip, and know how to use it too.

“I will try and forget that you’re a woman then, your grace,” Jory said with an anxious smile.

Lyanna rolled her eyes.  _ Not my point, but it will do. _ “Will you try and forget that I’m queen too?”

Jory swung sudden and hard, catching her by surprise; instead of blocking, Lyanna took a quick step back that turned into a stumble and landed her on her rump. “What was that, your grace?” Jory asked, smiling broader now. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your fall.”

As Lyanna laughed in return, it occurred to her it may have been her first honest laugh since her brothers rode to the Trident. She took Jory’s arm when it was extended and got back on her feet.

“You throw your weight behind you too quickly,” Ser Rodrik informed her, taking training too seriously to consider laughing along. “Controlled movements only, your grace.”

Lyanna nodded, and recentered her focus. “Yes, Ser Rodrik.”

She trained under Ser Rodrik’s careful eye for another hour before she concluded that there were other duties appeared that were more pressing. But before she left the yard, the master-at-arms offered some advice.

“You are not without your advantages,” Rodrik said with a voice that warned her that she had still a ways to go. “You are small and quick. You could run circles around your opponents if you wanted— but I wonder if you need a shield.”

“You do not think I require a shield?” Lyanna only ever recalled her brothers training with a sword and shield, and did not expect to be advised otherwise.

“So long as you remain small and quick, you would be better served without a heavy shield,” Rodrik explained. “Not even your sword needs to be as large as it is, but it will serve. Later you may want to ask Mikken to craft something smaller.”

“Later, as you say. Right now the smiths are up to their necks in tasks.” The sword she wore at her hip now was a simple, dull weapon, pulled from what was left of the armory. She would get something crafted special when the time was good, and when there was extra coin to do so. She patted Ser Rodrik on the arm. “Thank you for the advice, Ser Rodrik.”

The master-at-arms smiled and gave her a slight bow. “Of course, your grace.”

After the master-at-arms, it was the maester she sought out. Lyanna found Maester Luwin in his tower, flipping through the pages of a worn book in his study. When she arrived, he paused in his work to offer a bow of greeting.

“It is a rare sight to see you here and not in the winter town, maester,” Lyanna said with a smile. The maester’s grandfatherly countenance made for quick comfort on her part; just being around him brought her calm.

“And it is a rarer sight to see you with a sword at your hip, your grace.” He nodded toward the meager sword she kept, bushy grey brows raised in amusement.

Lyanna rested her hand on the pommel. “Does it suit me?”

“Quite well.”

Lyanna warmed briefly at the compliment. “How goes the work in the winter town?”

“Many, many men have been healed,” he reported approvingly. “The winter town is much less crowded than we first saw it. We began with nearly eight thousand injured; we have cut that number in half since the arrival of the maesters.”

That had been the work of two months; which meant, at this same pace, the men would be back home in another two months. Lyanna liked those numbers.

“Very good, maester. I am glad to hear to it. Have you taken note of the repair work?”

Lyanna rarely caught sight of Arthur during the day; he was in the winter town daily, and returned to Winterfell for only a few matters unknown to her. They did not see each other, and they did not speak often except for a relaying of commands on Lyanna’s part. It was not a talkative marriage they shared, but Lyanna thinks she prefers it this way.

“Lord Arthur runs his men like a regiment,” the maester reported. “They work quickly and ably, though you will have to inquire with him for further details.”

She nodded; she had to speak with him soon anyways, as her moon’s blood had arrived once more. “I will do that.”

The maester flipped through a few more pages in his book before he paused as if to take note of something. Then he looked back up to her and offered that kindly smile again. “Your grace, I hope you do not mind a personal question.”

“Speak freely, maester,” she said, not fearful at all of what he might ask.

“Would you like me to prepare a posset of herbs, for fertility’s sake?”

“Oh.”  _ That is rather personal. _ “Why do you ask, maester?”

“I had thought that perhaps you should like to hurry the progress along,” he said gently. “It has been nearly four moon’s turns since you’ve wed. I can understand if you do not wish to… endure the marriage bed for much longer.”

_ I wish I could say I’m only enduring it, maester.  _ The truth was that she found herself looking forward to her monthly coupling. It only seemed to improve with each time, and each time there was something new to learn. The last time had been the third attempt, with her in Arthur’s lap, her legs locked around him. She could not easily forget the closeness of his body to hers, or the way he ran his hands up and down her back, or his hot and heavy kisses. Within the walls of her bedchamber he was her greatest comfort and keenest pleasure. Outside it he was merely her husband, the man she was saddled with for the sake of humiliation, and the reason for her heartache. It was a contradiction she despised dwelling upon.

“The posset sounds like a good idea, maester,” Lyanna said half heartedly. “Though if we are speaking plainly, I must admit that I do not like my worth reduced to my ability to bear children.”

“That was not my intention, your grace,” the maester said gently. “I had only thought that you might be eager to move on to this part of your duty.”

“If I were a man, you would not call it my duty,” Lyanna grumbled as she recalled her childish ire.

“It is the duty of every head of House Stark to ensure that their line continues, your grace,” he explained patiently. He was right, but Lyanna did not want to admit it. She must have sported a disgruntled expression, for the maester abandoned his place at his book and walked closer to her. “I understand the uniqueness of your position. I have pored over the books and histories; the North has never known a Stark queen alone. Your house has always had sons to lead the North, and many kings.”

“It would have remained so had my brother kneeled,” Lyanna admitted quietly. “I did not want this for myself.”

“Your continued mourning has not gone unnoticed.” He nodded toward the black armband she wore, a substitute for her mourning gowns when she found herself in tunic and trousers instead.

“It is not easy to be the line of your line,” she confessed as the guilt returned to hound her. “It is not easy to know that if I stop mourning, that no one will take my place and mourn them as I do. Long after I stop wearing black, I will still mourn them everyday. I must. Not just because I love them, but because I must.” She shifted her hand uncomfortably on the pommel of her sword, now keenly aware of the black armband as if it were a lead weight. Mourning weighed so heavy on the heart; it was grief and rage and anxiety, all pressed into a long moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity. 

“And still, your mourning has not kept you from helping the hurt and hungry,” the maester pointed out with a hint of pride. “I have not been long with the Starks, but I believe you are doing a fine job, your grace. Your brothers would be proud to see how you’ve helped your people heal.”

“I have only just begun,” Lyanna said softly. “I hope to do much more.”

“And you will, I am certain of it.” His proceeded to hide his hands in his large sleeves, making him look smaller than he was. “My lady, do you understand why King Rhaegar married you to his half-brother?”

“To humiliate me,” Lyanna said quickly. Her hand gripped the pommel tight. “To bring me low, and punish me for my brothers’ battle.”

“That is part of it, yes,” the maester agreed, cool and level-headed to her fiery and upset. “I fear the dragon king is smarter than we first believed. He is not a man to be underestimated.”

“How so?” Lyanna asked, perversely curious. If there were strengths to him, she would know them. If there was a weakness to be found in that man, she would root it out. 

“I have spent time wondering why he would give his half-brother your hand and the king’s seat, when Lord Arthur has a noble name and could be more content with his own land, his own seat, with his own name,” the maester continued. “Rhaegar has many loyal men; if he did not balk at marrying you to a bastard, then there was no reason for him to hesitate in giving your hand to a different man, a man with a name and status that would not be missed. Or if he were even more merciful, he would have left you unmarried.”

“He wants my children to be part Targaryen,” she returned fiercely, recalling Rhaegar’s jibe about being an uncle. “He had said so himself.”

“That is a part of it too-- yet he has a trueborn brother who is more Targaryen than him.”

“Viserys Targaryen would not trade his name for mine.” Lyanna did not possess a political mind, but she understood things like pride more than well. For this particular instance, she was glad of it; she would have cut Viserys’s throat before he ever touched her.

“Indeed,” the maester agreed patiently. “Name and blood play a part in this-- but I believe it is Lord Arthur who plays the largest role.”

Lyanna furrowed her brows at this new confounder. “Arthur?”

“The northmen follow strength, as you surely know,” Luwin explained. “Rhaegar picked a man without dragons, but a warrior without peer. Lord Arthur has the strength the northmen so admire, even if they will not admit it. He also has it in his heart to serve the North as faithfully as he had served his half-brother. The work he has done in the winter town has not gone unnoticed, and neither has his attention to detail. He is learning the names of the servants in this castle. I hear him greet them by name. Children follow him around, fond of his bright sword and his attention. When he is not in the winter town he is at work here, setting his men to sharpening blades, fletching arrows, working with pelts-- and he works alongside them.”

The last few points came as a surprise to Lyanna. She did not pay attention to him enough, it seemed, outside of her bedchambers. Lyanna shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to think of all this.

“Why are you telling me this, maester?” she finally asked.

“I tell you so you may understand Rhaegar’s machinations better. He knew the northmen better than we give him credit for; Lord Arthur is a man the northmen will follow. He has the strength, the generosity, and the loyalty that they treasure. They may not accept him as their lord, but they will accept him as a leader.”

The words made her oddly uncomfortable. “How do they know he’s loyal?” she asked briskly. She thought that was a secret between them, of how easily and quickly he followed orders, and how much he loved his family. She wondered if he made the jape about being a dog to others, but didn’t like the thought.

“He is loyal to the king, your grace, and to you.”

“To me?”

“It has not gone unnoticed that the man often sleeps alone. Servants talk, your grace. Some even try to warm his bed, but they say he does not desire it.”

A quick flash of rage passed over her at that. She could never abide by any husband of hers sharing another woman’s bed, even if it was Arthur. If she ever learned those servants names...

“Should I fear him, then?” she snapped. “Should I be wary that men will see him as the Lord of Winterfell before they see me as it's Lady?”

The maester smiled weakly. “Your grace, he could never do that. The qualities I listed are not qualities he alone possesses. Everyone has seen your kind heart, and has heard of your hard work. They know who it is that has tended to the injured, and who has delayed the collection of their taxes for so long. And though carrying a sword may please you, that is not where your strength lies. You have a woman’s strength. You did not weep before your people. Your knee did not bend easily. Even now, I am sure the story of your rather extended silence at your wedding is being repeated as we speak.” Lyanna managed a small smile at that as some of her rage cooled away. “And of course, you have your name, and your sons will have it too. Arthur may be the Lord of Winterfell, and he may even one day be loved for it, but  _ you _ are Lyanna of House Stark, and the daughter of a king. But…” The maester trailed off.

“But?” Lyanna repeated, wary.

“But you still must prove yourself a ruler,” the maester completed. His blue eyes hardened considerably, as it appeared to her that he shifted from a warm grandfather to a stern father. “Your husband has the ability to inspire loyalty. He may lead through strength and through charm, but he was not raised to rule. He was only raised to fight. When the northmen look for a ruler, they should look toward you, your grace.”

“I was not raised to rule either,” Lyanna interjected honestly. “I was raised to be a man’s wife, to bear his children, to manage his castle and his household and little else. I did not want it, that is for certain, no more than I wanted to rule the North.”

“It is new to you, I know, and you will be the first woman of your line to take on this task. Yet your name bears weight, your grace. The name ‘Stark’ brings to mind justice, fairness, strength, and protection. You must deliver on your name; your Dayne husband cannot, nor can you allow him.”

Lyanna understood the meaning of the maester’s words. She may not have been raised to rule, but she did observe rulers. She had seen her father mete out justice, either by sword or by word. She had memories of sitting on her father’s lap as he held court and listened to petitions from the smallfolk and nobles alike. Too often, however, Lyanna only heard, but she did not listen. It was Brandon’s job to listen, and Ned and Benjen’s too. The Starks could always be counted on to deliver justice that was fair and swift. It was Lyanna’s turn to continue to that same vein, and not let men do it for her anymore.

“What do you suggest I do, maester?” she asked, a new resolve burning within her.

“I believe you should lessen your focus on the winter town; things will progress and heal just as swiftly without your attention. Let your husband continue his work without your observation; let the maesters and healers use servants to fetch their poultices. It has been too long that the people of the North saw a Stark hold court, and I know there will be no lack of grievances and lawlessness. It will be up to you to resolve it all.”

“Me alone?”

“You may invite your lord husband to sit in on these courts; though you are Lady Stark, he remains the Lord of Winterfell and very well cannot be barred from such a thing. But remember, even with as little instruction as you claim to have, you know more than him. You know what the people expect from Winterfell. Let your voice be heard, your grace. Let them know that despite the injustice that had been done to you, the promise of justice will still be an oath House Stark will continue to uphold.”

Lyanna nodded. “I will do that, maester, but…” Her doubts threatened to eat her up if she did not speak them. “I will need advice.”

Luwin smiled kindly. “I will be at your shoulder, your grace, and Lord Poole at your other side. We will not leave you alone in this-- we will not leave you alone in anything.”

Those words were the greatest comfort she’d known in a long, long time. She had been surrounded by her people since the start of her reign, yet she had always felt alone. To hear it words of support said aloud by a man she depended on and trusted perhaps more dearly than anyone else in the castle made her feel a little less empty.

“Thank you, maester,” she said sincerely. Though his hands were still hidden in his sleeves, Lyanna clasped them through the thick cloth. “I will make you proud. I will make my brothers proud, and my people proud too, I promise.”

“Yes, you will,” Luwin returned with his grandfatherly smile. “A final thing, your grace. The sculptor you had asked for arrived earlier. He waits in your solar.”

Lyanna felt a jolt of excitement fire through her. “At last,” she breathed. She moved quickly to the door, almost jogging. “Thank you, maester,” she said right before she hurried down the stairs of the tower, across the courtyard, and into the Great Keep. She was panting by the time she reached her solar. Before entering, she righted herself, smoothed her hair and trousers and returned to her normal breaths.

The sculptor was a small, bearded man with beady black eyes. He rose when she entered, and bowed.

“Your grace,” the vaguely familiar man said in a reedy voice.

“Sculptor,” she returned before moving behind her desk. “Thank you for coming to Winterfell.”

“I have been here before, your grace,” the man said with a wry smile. “My name is Donnel. I made King Rickard Stark’s statue for the crypts.”

“Oh,” Lyanna said, surprised. She clearly did not pay attention enough in those days-- and that had only been a few years prior. “Well, thank you for returning. Please, sit.” She motioned to the chair before her, and he obeyed. “As you might have guessed, I require statues for my brothers. Usually it is only the Kings of the North who receive them, but I wish to honor my other two brothers, the princes, as well.”

The man nodded. “Of course. I remember your eldest brother well-- an impressive man. Tall,” he added in a chuckle. She imagined most men appeared tall to such a small man, but Brandon had indeed been tall, towering over most. “But it was Prince Eddard I saw the most of, in truth.”

Lyanna knew this tale was true. When father had died, Brandon became king-- but in name only. For all his charisma and birthright, her eldest brother did not enjoy the responsibilities of ruling. Ned, on the other hand, had a greater sense of duty, and did not mind doing most of the work so long as Winterfell ran smoothly. And it did run smoothly; Ned made was a wonderful king, for a prince. Even Brandon had taken to calling him ‘King Ned’, something that made Ned turn a remarkable shade of scarlet every time.

“Then we have your memory, and I have mine,” Lyanna said, content. “I also have some portraits-- I will show them to you.” She had gathered the miniatures in one place a few moons prior. They rested in the same drawer as the spare wax, so that they were always close at hand. She pulled them out and splayed them on the table. She pointed at one.

“This was Brandon’s only portrait he had done as king,” Lyanna said, smiling fondly down on the upside down miniature. It was Lyanna who had begged him to do a single portrait, to hang on the wall in the Great Hall, and instead he had paid her with this small thing. When she told him that she had meant a full-sized portrait, her brother smiled his roguish smile and said, “This is better; whenever you’re in a mood to quarrel and I’m not here, you can look at the miniature and shout at it.” He smiled that roguish smile in the portrait too; cocksure, confident, with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword as his handsome face looked out at the viewer. Even his grey eyes were smiling. The painter had done well.

She pointed to the second miniature, one done when they were all much younger. It was the portrait their father had carried around: Rickard Stark stood behind her mother, Lyarra Stark, a toddler Benjen in her lap, a five-year old Lyanna at one side, and Ned and Brandon on their mother’s other side. Ned was only eight in the portrait, and Brandon was nine. “I know Ned is rather young in this,” Lyanna remarked. “But some features of his stayed much the same. See that expression?” Ned’s face was set in that sullen mask he wore all his life. Even his smile seemed perfectly moody. “Ned’s face never changed from this, I swear it. And Benjen…”

Benjen would be the most difficult, she knew. The only proper miniature that survived of him was one done of only the children, roughly 6 years ago. She pointed at the ten year old Benjen, who grinned broadly at Lyanna’s side. She remembered posing for this portrait well. Brandon had complained all the way through it, exclaiming he was bored and ruffled Ned’s hair so many times that it started to stick out permanently, no matter how hard Ned tried to smooth it down. Lyanna and Ben passed the time with a pinching contest. She pinched his arm, and he’d pinch back harder, then she pinched back even harder, over and over until Ben squealed and their father caught on to their act. After they had laughed themselves silly over being caught, Lyanna moved on to pinch Brandon, who tickled her in return. She remembered being breathless on the floor, nearly pissing herself with laughter, until their father shouted at them again. 

“If you did not see enough of Benjen, I will help you to recreate him,” Lyanna said. “His face was not so different from Ned’s-- well, it  _ was _ different of course, but we all share the same long face. His nose was longer than Ned’s, and he smiled more.”

“I will sketch out the likenesses,” the sculptor decided with a nod. “When that is done, I will show them to you, and you may tell me what you want changed.”

Lyanna nodded eagerly. “Yes, that sounds good. Another thing-- I want a direwolf at Brandon’s feet,” she said. “He was the wildest of all of us, like the running direwolf on our sigil.”  _ Brandon would like that, _ she nearly added.

“It will be done, your grace.” The sculptor smiled a warm smile.

“Thank you,” Lyanna returned joyfully-- but also a little somber. Looking upon those portraits had brought on that great and terrible feeling of hollowness again. She had lost so much, and so many-- father, mother, Brandon, Ned, Benjen. It hurt to think that while they would only be forever immortalized in portrait and in stone, that these things were their only likenesses. They did not live and breathe and keep her company. They could not comfort her or bring her joy. They would only be memories, a testament that announced that they had existed, and that they were loved enough to have them remembered in something more permanent than fleeting memory.

The sculptor’s finger touched the edge of the family portrait. “Might I hold onto these, for the sketches?”

Lyanna looked at him, troubled. “I…” She hesitated.

_ He will give them back, _ she told herself.  _ He will only borrow them for a little while. _

She chewed her lip in thought before she lifted her fingers from the miniatures. “Yes, you may borrow them,” she finally said.

The sculptor smiled and gathered them into a neat pile. “You may come see my work any time, your grace,” he offered kindly. “Your maester has found me a place on the bottom floor of his turret to work.”

“Yes, I will visit,” Lyanna insisted with more zeal than she intended to reveal. “Thank you,” she said again.

She sat alone in her solar for some time, ruminating over old memories. It did not feel fair that she had experienced so much loss while others had gained so much through this terrible war.  _ By the gods, I miss you all so much, _ she lamented to nothing and no one. _ I should not be in this seat. I should be riding with Brandon, or laughing with Ben, or teasing Ned. _

A knock came at the door. Lyanna quickly wiped her face to be rid of any insufferable tears that may have fallen, then cleared her throat despite the lump in it. “Come in,” she commanded.

A serving girl greets her-- Lyla, a daughter of an older servant. “I’ve been sent to let you know that Lord Dayne’s siblings have sent word that they are arriving later today, your grace,” the girl said with a quick curtsey and an even quicker exit.

Lyanna nodded at the closed door.  _ I must greet them, I suppose,  _ she thought, forlorn. She looked down at her tunic and trousers and wondered if she should change. She quickly banished the thought; she would not seek to impress these southron, no matter how small their involvement in that terrible conquest. They were Arthur’s siblings, and she would have them here because she could not deny their presence without good reason.

Lyanna sighed, then rose to leave. If nothing else, she would be their gracious host, and hope they misliked the North enough to depart it in good time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's siblings arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)

Before she could leave her solar and see if Arthur’s siblings had arrived, Lord Poole stalled her with a letter. Lyanna knew immediately that it must be a particularly important letter for it to be delivered directly by her steward. He had opened it already, which meant that it was not a personal letter, but something to do with pertinent lordly business. It had been sealed with black wax, with the imprint of a crow on it.

“From the Wall?” Lyanna inquired, having recognized the sigil quickly. 

Beron nodded gravely. “From the Lord Commander himself,” he said.

Lyanna opened the letter and began to read it.

_ My lady, _ it began.  _ I hope this letter reaches you well. I send my deepest condolences for the deaths of your brothers and your current situation. I write to seek confirmation of House Stark’s commitment to the well-being of the Sworn Brothers of the Wall; the Wall lacks men as the realm lacks men, and I must know if the Lady of Winterfell may be depended on to nurse it back to health in the future. I hope the new Lord of Winterfell performs nobly.  _ It closed coldly with,  _ 996th Lord Commander Qorgyle. _

“What does it mean?” Lyanna asked, a question she often posed toward the steward. “Did I do something to make him doubt me?”

“He writes plainly enough, but indeed there is a deeper question buried in his words,” Beron admitted gravely.

“‘I write to seek--’ I don’t understand that at all,” Lyanna added with a frown. Too often her letters read like codes that she did not have the cipher for; if only everyone spoke plainly, she would be much gladder to read their words and pen prompt responses.

“As you read, he opens the letter with your new title, and notes your position as Lady of Winterfell,” Beron said as he began to unravel this wordy knot. “Yet he also brings up Lord Arthur and his performance. It is a test, your grace.”

Lyanna nearly groaned. She was tired of tests. “How do I pass this one, then?” she asked irritably.

“He sees both Stark and Dayne at Winterfell’s helm, but appeals to Stark first,” he explained. “If you do not give him the response he desires, he will appeal to Dayne next.”

“So he doubts me,” Lyanna concluded with the set of her jaw, familiar enough with the sentiment. “He thinks because I am a lady of Stark, and not a lord, that I will not see the Wall served justly.”

Beron nodded. “You have the right of it, your grace.”

“He wants men at the Wall, yet he knows that we have no men to spare,” Lyanna continued. “So he wants… a gift? No-- an example of my commitment.”

Beron nodded again, almost smiling this time. “Indeed, your grace.”

“I must sate the Lord Commander’s appetite for fighting men, then,” Lyanna said. She had half a mind to crumple it up and put it in the fire, as this was a challenge that irked her and felt undue. “I must send him a few men in my name to restore his confidence in me-- though clearly there was no confidence to start with,” Lyanna added in a grumble. “Very well, then. I will scrounge up those men for him. House Stark has always served the Wall well in the past, and the tradition will not end with me.”

“A worthy response, your grace,” Lord Poole said, offering more praise than she had ever expected to hear from him. “Pen your letter and send it soon. He will appreciate swiftness.”

Lyanna scoffed. “We’ll see if he has a bone of appreciation in him, my lord.” She walked to the window with the letter in hand and chewed her lip as she thought. “Though I suppose I still must choose my words wisely. By the gods, why must lords be so--” She paused her train of thought as she looked out to the main gate, where she saw a wheelhouse roll through and into the yard, led by Arthur upon his horse. “They’re here,” Lyanna said.

“They?” Beron joined her at the window. “Ah yes, Lord Arthur’s siblings. More bastards.”

Lyanna glanced at him. “They are legitimized,” she noted. Then she returned to her desk to set the letter down. “I will pen my response tonight. I should greet them, bastards or no.” She hurried to the door, hand upon the hilt of her sword to keep it from bouncing upon her hip.

“When you have your response done, allow me to read it, your grace,” Beron called after her.

Lyanna moved quickly down the hall and to the doors that led out into the yard. The briskness of the early evening air slapped her in the face, but it was a welcome change from the stuffy warmth indoors. She watched from a distance as three cloaked figures lined out of the wheelhouse-- a woman, a man, and a young girl, as Arthur had described. The littlest of the three ran into Arthur’s arms, who picked her up as if she were light as air and swung her around.  _ Allyria _ , Lyanna recalled. She moved closer to take better sight and sound of them.

The young man was led by the hand by the older sister.  _ Ali and Ashara. _ She could only see their backs from here, where they had their cloaks pulled up, but she saw that Ali was near as tall as Arthur, and Ashara was tall herself for a woman.

“Look Ali, it’s Arthur,” Ashara urged her brother in a voice like warm honey.

“Arthur,” the man repeated. Arthur smiled at his brother, and his approach was gentle, with a hand on his shoulder, at an arm’s length, until it was Ali was initiated the embrace.

“I’ve missed you, brother,” Arthur said warmly. It took some time and gentle urging on Ashara’s part for the younger brother to draw away. “Ashara,” Arthur said fondly as he looked upon his sister.

She giggled as she was swept off her feet in his embrace, and the hood of her cloak fell away to reveal long, raven black hair, a surprise when compared to Arthur’s marginally lighter locks. Once she was back upon her feet, Arthur placed a hand on Ali’s shoulder, and the other on Ashara’s, and nodded towards Lyanna.

“This is Lyanna Stark, Lady of Winterfell,” Arthur announced her, much to Lyanna’s surprise. She had been just fine observing.

The trio of siblings turned to face her, and Lyanna was struck at how much they differed from each other. All had the same purple eyes, but none of them were quite the same. Allyria, the youngest of the bunch, had curly dark hair and her skin had the same Dornish cast as Arthur’s, lightly browned and smooth. She wore a sweet, shy smile and offered the gentlest curtsey. Ali was fairer of skin, with silver-gold hair like a Targaryen’s, cut short. He was a tall man, perhaps six feet, and more than handsome. He lacked his brother’s lean muscle; instead he was merely skinny and gangly, in a way that reminded her of Benjen. His smile was bright and expressive, but his eyes had an unfocused blankness that reminded her more of Walder, Old Nan’s simple great-grandson who tended to the horses. Then the last one, and the most pleasing to look at, was Ashara Dayne.

Lyanna was quickly struck by how beautiful the woman was. Her black hair was long, thick, and pin-straight. She had a womanly figure, and her wide, trusting purple eyes were set in a charming heart shaped face. Her fair skin was flushed pink, from cold most likely, but perhaps excitement too. Everything about her emanated warmth-- yet it was her that Lyanna was most wary of. She must have been the loveliest woman Lyanna had ever seen, and for whatever reason, it made her difficult to look at.

“Hello,” Lyanna finally managed to utter, once she tore her gaze away from Ashara and to the easier Ali. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

Ashara was the first to rush to her side. She clasped Lyanna’s hands in her gloved ones and smiled brightly. “It is so good to finally meet you, my lady,” Ashara said sweetly and, to Lyanna’s ears, sincerely. “I have heard so much of you and have been much eager to meet you.”

“This is Ashara,” Arthur introduced her belatedly, and unnecessarily. 

“I know,” Lyanna returned perhaps a little too sharply. “It is good to meet you too, Lady Ashara,” Lyanna returned the sentiment with less heart than had been paid to her. Ashara’s grin somehow turned brighter, and left Lyanna to wonder if there was such a thing as a Smile of the Morning in House Dayne.

Ashara relinquished one of her hands to motion Allyria over. “This here is Allyria,” she said as she brushed a loose curl out of her face in a motherly fashion.

“It is good to meet you, my lady,” Allyria said sweetly and with another curtsey. For a girl of ten, she was tall for her age, and graceful too. Lyanna could not help but soften towards her, for she was only a girl. Lyanna was fond enough of children, even polite ones.

“You may call me Lyanna, Allyria,” Lyanna said with the best smile she could manage. “Your brother did not tell me you were so pretty.” And she was-- the promise of beauty was bright in the young girl’s face.

Allyria giggled sweetly. “Well, Arthur said  _ you _ were pretty,” she announced honestly. Lyanna glanced into Arthur’s face to see a brief flash of alarm pass over it. “I think he was right.”

“You think?” Ashara repeated with a chuckle. “You are lovely, Lady Lyanna, for certain.”

The compliment did not sound as sweet from Ashara’s lips. She had to have been the most beautiful woman alive; Lyanna didn’t hold a candle to her. Still, she nodded, unsure of how else to respond.

Lyanna shifted her gaze to the final sibling, who still smiled his broad smile. “You must be Ali,” Lyanna said, announcing him before one of the others could. 

“Come, Ali, greet Lady Stark,” Ashara commanded tenderly of him. She motioned for him to move closer, but he remained rooted in place.

“Lady Stark?” Ali asked. His smile did not slip, but recognition did not flash in his eyes.

“She is my wife, Ali,” Arthur said gently. They all seemed to take on a softer demeanor toward him. Then Lyanna recalled how Arthur had described him: ‘simple’. “And since she is a lady, you must bow to her.”

“He does not have to,” Lyanna interjected quickly. “Nor does he have to call me Lady Stark.” When Lyanna offered a hand in greeting, she was surprised to see it thoroughly ignored.

“You must forgive him, my lady,” Ashara began with a weaker smile than before. “Our dear Ali is slow of wits, though I promise he is sweet.”

Lyanna nodded in understanding. “There is nothing to forgive,” she insisted as firmly as she could. “Please, come into the Great Hall. There is food prepared that I’m sure will be welcome after your long journey.”

“Yes, it has been long,” Ashara agreed. “And cold! I feared any moment that snow might fall.”

_ Cold? _ Lyanna nearly asked aloud. They were the only ones who wore furred cloaks in all of Winterfell, save for Arthur and his own host of southron men when they were not out sweating in the winter town.  _ On the contrary, this is our warm weather. _

As the siblings headed indoors, Arthur remained with Lyanna who lingered outside. He was in his usual state, sweaty and dirtied from the work he pursued today, but happier than Lyanna had ever seen him. He closed the gap between them, then tapped the pommel of the sword at her hip.

“It suits you,” he said with a smile that would not slip. “If you are in need of a sparring partner--”

“I have one,” Lyanna said curtly. She felt her own mood grow sour, though she could not place why. The Lord Commander’s letter had been unpleasant, yes, but the arrival of Arthur’s siblings had gone well enough. All the same, Lyanna felt as if something fell had crawled into her heart.

“It warms my heart to see them again,” Arthur said, effortlessly changing the subject. “I have missed them so. I thank you for extending your hospitality toward them.”

Lyanna looked away from his honest expression. “I am only doing what is required of me,” she said half-heartedly.

“Perhaps, but I thank you for it all the same,” Arthur returned. “I must go inside and wash up before joining them for food. Will you dine with them until then?”

“They are not  _ my _ siblings,” she said, before she looked back up at him; then something in his expression brought to light that terrible feeling inside: she was envious.  _ Where are my siblings? Dead, one by your sword, two by dragonfire.  _ It was not a way to be, much less a way to act. She would not be gladder to see the three she had just met dead, but it hurt, twisted the knife in her side that reminded her that she was alone, and missing three of the things that had once made her whole. “I will join them,” Lyanna added dejectedly under his silently objecting expression.

“I am glad to hear it,” Arthur said in a voice that seemed to indicate that her unkind words had gone unheard.

“I had meant to ask you,” Lyanna said, catching him before he turned to leave. “How goes the work in the winter town?”

“I would say we are nearly finished,” Arthur reported. “Repairs have gone even quicker than expected, as some of the men the maesters have healed have taken to helping us finish the task.”

This was a fact that astonished Lyanna. “Why do they work?” she asked, baffled. “They are fresh from war, and I am not paying them for it.”

“I think some of these men are afraid to go home,” he answered grimly. “Some of their burns cover their faces and more; others have lost limbs. Perhaps they fear returning to a family that would reject them. I cannot say for certain.”

Lyanna’s heart dropped for these men. “They follow your orders?” she asked, thinking on what Maester Luwin had warned her.  _ The northmen follow strength. _

“I’m a good commander,” Arthur replied, with a smile that implied a small jest. “I’m loud when I shout and difficult to ignore.”

“The maester tells me you run your men like a regiment.” Another valuable quality.

“I like order,” Arthur said with a shrug. “It is much easier to manage men when they are in their proper places. I also like cleanliness, it must be said.”

It sounded like a hint. Lyanna looked away from his sly smile. “Of course. You should go wash up,” she remarked swiftly.

“I will see you soon,” he promised before going indoors.

Lyanna followed with a measure of reluctance, unsure if she really wanted to sit with her guests. They seemed nice enough, but she had to keep reminding herself they were faultless. They did not take part in battle, did not sanction any killing... but still, they benefitted from it all.  _ They are a woman, a simple man, and a child, _ Lyanna insisted to herself.  _ Hardly warriors or masterminds of anything. _

She found them sitting in a row, Ashara in the middle of Allyria and Ali as they dined on mutton, bread, and stew. They seemed happy enough in their limited company; there was no reason for Lyanna to infringe on them, really.  _ I must, _ Lyanna told herself firmly.  _ I am the Lady of Winterfell, and this is my castle. _

She joined them on the bench across the table, and managed a small smile for courtesy’s sake. “Your brother will join us soon, after he has washed up,” she said before they could ask.

Ashara nodded. “Yes, he was quite filthy,” she remarked, that radiant smile still plastered to her face. “I was surprised to see him so hard at work in that village. Here I thought he would get a chance to relax after the war, but I suppose that is not his way.”

“Arthur is  _ always _ doing something,” Allyria added between mouthfuls of food. The girl seemed none too pleased to report her truth, and pouted as she spoke the words.

“Yes, but he does it for all of us,” Ashara said in what could almost be a chastisement had it not been for the fact that she still appeared in high spirits. “And now that he is a lord in his own right, he works for his people too.” It was a didactic tone she took on, an explanation of how she viewed Arthur’s role here. Perhaps she was not wrong, but Lyanna chafed at the northmen being called Arthur’s people. They were supposed to be  _ her _ people.

“Oh, but I have been awfully rude,” Ashara suddenly said as she put down her spoon. She fixed Lyanna with those wide purple eyes; they had that same honest quality that Arthur shared. “I am very sorry for your brothers’ fates,” she said solemnly. Her hands reached out to clasp Lyanna’s over the table. “I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been for you. And to marry so soon after-- truly, that was undeserved.”

“It was your half-brother that decided I deserved it,” Lyanna remarked coldly. She pulled her hands away from the woman; she did not care how nice she seemed, she did not need her empty sympathy.

“I know,” Ashara said with a frown, that smile finally gone from view. “What Rhaegar did was undue. Still, I take comfort in knowing that it is Arthur you were wed to. He is kind and gentle, as I hope he has demonstrated to you.”

Lyanna’s temper flared; she was unsure if the woman was ignorant or just being cruel. _He killed my brother,_ she wanted to say, but held her tongue for now. When a serving girl set down a pitcher of wine between them, Lyanna found herself quickly pouring a goblet and downing it. She had no appetite for food, but drink was appealing to her now more than usual.

“Lady Lyanna,” Allyria’s childish voice spoke up, seemingly ignorant of the chill in the air, as children were wont to be. “Why do you dress like a man?”

“Allyria,” Ashara hissed in a reprimand.

“Because I like to,” Lyanna answered plainly; she liked the honesty of children. “I don’t care much for pretty gowns.”

“Can you get pretty gowns?” This seemed to be an important question for her.

“Yes, of course I can.”

“Warm ones?”

Lyanna nearly smiled. “Yes, warm ones too.” 

“Then perhaps living here won’t be so bad, Ashara,” the girl said to her sister, who still appeared abashed. Lyanna felt a little bad for her crestfallen expression. It seemed that no matter how hard she tried to absolve the woman, it did not work.

“We will make up our minds in good time,” Ashara said to her sister with a weak smile. 

“What about you, Ali?” Allyria asked as she reached behind her sister to poke her older brother. “Do you want to stay?”

The man did not look up from the food he was eating. He ate in tiny pieces, Lyanna noted, and at a quick pace. His attention could not be caught by his sister.

“Ali must have been hungry,” Ashara explained as she patted his arm. “He does not do well in telling us what he wants.”

Lyanna looked down at her clasped hands with a measure of shame.  _ I am being unkind to the wrong person, _ she decided. She would try to mend the splintered bridge between them. “Arthur told me you care for them both,” Lyanna said as she tapped her fingers against her goblet, trying to strike up conversation. “That must keep you very busy.”

Ashara shrugged. “It is my duty; I do not mind it. Our mother was not often present, thus I learned at a young age how to care for my siblings,” she admitted with a somber smile. “And of course, they are my blood and I would do anything for them.” She pinched Allyria’s cheek affectionately, who returned the gesture with a swat of her hand. “I have always said that Arthur and I are like father and mother to them; Arthur is our protector, and I am the one who makes sure they are fed, dressed, and bathed. We have been more than fortunate as of late; I cannot complain.”

Lyanna was struck again by that feeling of emptiness.  _ I had siblings who protected me too, siblings I loved and cared for in my own way, _ she wanted to say. It was becoming too difficult to look at them, and that terrible envy threatened to rise up and bite her again. She poured another goblet of wine and downed it hurriedly.  _ It is not fair, _ she thought.

“Here we all are,” a voice called out from behind her-- Arthur’s voice. She turned her head to see him walk up to the table, dressed in finer clothing than he had been in earlier, face cleaned and hair combed. He settled in on the bench beside her. “Gods be good, I am ravenous.” He reached for a piece of bread to use as a trencher and cut a large piece of mutton for himself. “I can see Ali is too,” he remarked, tilting his head toward his brother.

Ashara returned to all smiles. “It is warm inside and the food is hot; how can anyone resist?” she asked sweetly. Her eyes were warm as honeyed milk as she looked upon her older brother. Arthur returned with a grin of his own.

“It is made all the better with present company,” Arthur said. He reached across to take his sister’s hand and kiss her knuckles. Lyanna promptly looked away, unsure if she felt as if she were intruding or if she was simply trying to spare herself the sight.

_ Ned would kiss my hand like that sometimes. _

Another goblet of wine settled her nerves; it also made her a little dizzy.

“And  _ you _ ,” Arthur said as he looked upon Allyria. He appeared to reach under the table and pinch her leg, for she squealed, then giggled mirthfully. “Ashara tells me you’ve been driving your septa half mad.”

“She is such a  _ bore _ , Arthur,” Allyria returned with a mischievous grin. “‘Lady Allyria,’” the girl took on the comical tone of an uptight old lady’s, “‘you must use  _ lavender _ string, not  _ violet _ .’”

“There is a difference?” Arthur asked, seemingly genuine.

“Of course there is,” Ashara returned with a scoff and a smile. “Who will marry her if she doesn’t know the difference?”

“Exactly, Allyria, who will marry you?” He must have pinched her again, for she jumped and giggled madly.

“I don’t want to get married,” the girl complained.

Lyanna squeezed her eyes shut as her own voice echoed those words in a memory to similar to the scene that played out before her.  _ By the gods, _ she cursed. They were too much to look at and listen to. Another goblet of wine did away with the thought quickly.

Yet on and on they went, exchanging laughs and pleasantries, telling stories, and doting on one another. Lyanna did her best to offer a forced smile or a dismissive nod when attentions were turned to her, but when they did not try to speak to her, she continued to drink for the better part of an hour. At one point she had to stop herself for she felt dangerously close to hurling whatever it was she ate in the morning, and worse, her vision began to swim. She was unused to drinking so much; she pressed the heel of her hand to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut to try and right herself.

“My lady, perhaps you should get some food in your belly,” Ashara’s motherly tone beseeched her. When Lyanna opened her eyes she saw her hold out a cut of bread. She appeared kind enough, but in Lyanna’s state, the sweet smile only made her empty stomach turn and her rage flare.

“I do not need you to tell me what I should do,” Lyanna returned sharply, her words coming out in graceless drawl. Still, she found she could not stop herself, nor her temper from mounting. Restraint was quickly slipping through her fingers.

Ashara’s glance appeared nervous as it flitted from Lyanna to Arthur. “Brother, is the lady well?”

“Yes, kind Arthur, am I well?” Lyanna asked in a mocking tone. She was hot all over and her stomach an empty pit. It felt as if she were barrelling towards an edge she should not fall over, and yet it was beyond Lyanna’s control. The drink had loosened her lips and her wits. “ _ Kind _ , that’s what she called you, as if you did not kill my brother. I should be grateful, I s’pose, shouldn’t I? Better that my brother’s killer be  _ kind _ .” Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth and words melted into each other. When Lyanna looked to Ashara, she found that the woman appeared alarmed, and not by her boldness alone. “What? Didn’t you know that your brother killed my brother?”

Ashara’s expression froze in a muted shock. “I did not know that,” she admitted softly. She quietly returned to her food, careful not to look at Lyanna.

“You didn’t tell her, Arthur?” Lyanna accused him hotly as she rose to her feet; she swayed as she did so, threatening to fall over before she steadied herself. Arthur’s expression, for once, was unreadable. “‘Course not. Who would want to admit that they killed their bride’s brother then fucked her a week later?” she bit out.

Arthur rose, hard and fast, shifting the entire bench as he did. “You’re drunk,” he said simply. He moved closer to her, perhaps to hold her and lead her away, but she stopped him with a hard shove. This served to make her stumble backwards until she found her bearings again by gripping the edge of the table.

“Drunk, but not a liar,” she said as the hall spun around her until she found Ashara’s face again. “Father and mother. Would that you made like Targaryens and married each other to spare me,” she spat out, her speech slurred. “Your sister’s prettier than me, isn’t she? With that bloody smile--  _ gods _ , enough with that smile--”

“You should go lay down, Lyanna,” Arthur said firmly. He did not try to reach for her again, nor did he have to. His rage was apparent enough on his face to frighten her a bit, even in her inebriated state.

“No,  _ you _ should,” Lyanna returned as embarrassing tears sprung into her eyes. “It’s not fair that you have three siblings to jape and laugh with and I have none, thanks to you and horrible Rhaegar. It’s not…  _ fair _ .” For a moment, the hall stopped spinning long enough for her to examine the faces of those around her-- Allyria appeared horrified, Ashara wide-eyed, Arthur incandescent with a silent rage. Even Ali had looked up from his food to stare at her like she were a spectacle.

Worse still, she had her own people in the hall, stopped to stare at their lady embarrassing herself. Some of those people had known her since she was born; all of them knew her brothers.

Lyanna grasped the moment of clarity to lower her abashed face and run. She felt like a silly little girl again, crying at some unkind prank Brandon had paid her and running to find a brother to comfort her. But Lyanna had no brothers any more, and no one at all to comfort her. So she ran and ran, throwing off her bouncing sword as she did, until she stopped before the heart tree and dropped to her knees.

“Why?” she asked again, for the first time since she bent the knee. “Why me? Why?”

The heart tree wept for her, but it did not suffice. It would never suffice.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old gods make an offering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since the last update some wonderful people have made some wonderful things. :')
> 
> @marthjefferson drew an amazing (nsfw) scene from the fic [here](http://marthajefferson.tumblr.com/post/167642383596/within-the-walls-of-her-bedchamber-he-was-her), and @rainchi17 put together a beautiful [playlist](https://ranichi17.tumblr.com/post/167799832819/they-would-see-her-rage-long-before-they-would). Thank you both so much for the support and I'm so happy you all love my fic this much <3
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

The old gods could only offer her a memory.

It had been from a time when she was six-and-ten. Her father had been dead half a year then, and Brandon was hosting a feast for some visiting lords. Houses Karstark, Umber, and Glover had come, no doubt to discuss the latest wildling raid, or whatever it was that lords discussed. Lyanna had been sitting alone with Benjen, sneaking extra cups of wine while Ned was engaged in conversation with Lord Glover.

“Why is Ned the only one speaking to them?” Lyanna whispered to Benjen. They sat a table away from Ned and the lords, content, as they always were, in just being two. “Where’s Brandon?”

“Out riding, probably,” Benjen returned with a mischievous smile that he hid in his goblet.

“Nonsense, he would have taken me with him,” Lyanna returned.

“Oh, he’s not riding a horse.”

“What do you--” When the meaning dawned on her, she smacked Benjen on the arm, causing him to spill a little wine in his lap. He snorted with laughter. “That’s disgusting, Ben.”

“Well, that’s what he’s doing!” he laughed.

“No, he’s not,” she returned sharply. As soon as she said the words, the brother in question loped into the room with Jon Umber at his side, laughing at something he said. When he caught sight of Lyanna, he gave the man a pat on the arm and left him. Brandon came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Well, sweet sister, what do you think?” Brandon asked with no prelude. She craned her neck to look up at him and his roguish smile.

“What do you mean, what do I think?” she asked, suspicious.

“Jon Umber-- the Greatjon, as your husband. He’s asked after you.”

Lyanna balked and stared at the man in question. Jon Umber was one of the biggest men she’d ever seen, nearing seven feet tall with muscle that gave him girth to match his height. He had a head of shaggy dark hair and a permanent smile behind his great thick beard.

“Absolutely not,” Lyanna returned firmly.

“Why not?” Brandon asked. She could hear that infuriating grin in his voice.

“He’s so… _large_ ,” Lyanna said feebly. “And have you seen how much he drinks?”

“A man his size, he needs a little more drink than the rest of us,” Brandon said with a squeeze of her shoulders. “And it’s true, he’s like to crush you when you lay with him, but you can always ask to ride him instead.”

“Brandon!” Lyanna scolded as she shoved his hands off her. Brandon laughed and Benjen echoed him as a blush burned her cheeks. “I’ll not have him,” she insisted, more adamant than before, thanks to the filthy jape.

Brandon groaned theatrically and sat down beside her. “I must marry you to _someone_.”

“Fine words for a man who is unmarried himself,” Lyanna said briskly. “House Stark needs sons.”

“It has three,” Brandon pointed out.

“ _Your_ sons.”

“There’ll be time enough for sons of my own,” Brandon said flippantly. Marriage was not something he desired anymore than she did. “But time for you is running out, sweet sister. Soon enough you’ll be an old maid. She’s how old, Ben?”

“Six-and-ten,” Benjen answered dutifully.

“You’re old already!” Brandon exclaimed.

“And you’re stupid,” Lyanna returned childishly, earning her a derisive laugh. “I’ll not marry unless I want to, and to a man I like.”

“Would that I had our father’s countenance when it came to you,” Brandon said, shaking his head. He poured himself a horn of ale. “Father knew how to deny you everything, but I know how to deny you nothing.”

“There is nothing wrong with seeking out my consent on my own betrothal,” Lyanna pointed out.

“Yes, but it is my job to see you wed.” He scratched his beard, clearly uncomfortable with saying the words. “Men ask after you, men I know you’ll not like, and I keep telling them no, wait till she’s seven-and-ten. Next year I’ll ask them to wait until you’re eight-and-ten, and soon enough I’ll say to wait until you’re fifty…”

Lyanna gave him a sideways shove.

“Jon Umber is a good man,” Brandon insisted after he feigned a wince for her benefit. As soon as he said it, the Greatjon’s boisterous laugh rang out throughout the hall. “Think of the sons he’ll give you. They’ll be bigger and stronger than me.”

“How did you know that my one true desire was big, strong sons?” Lyanna asked with a roll of her eyes.

“So you’ll have him?” he asked eagerly.

“No, I’ll not have him,” Lyanna clipped.

“Ben, tell her to take him,” Brandon pleaded with their brother.

“Lyanna, you should marry the Greatjon,” Benjen chimed in cheerily.

“I said I’ll not have him,” Lyanna returned sharply. “Shouldn’t you be with Ned, speaking to those lords about, I don’t know, how many fields they’ve ploughed?”

“Well, Ned’s ploughed no fields, I can tell you that much,” Brandon said. He was smiling into his mug. “Meanwhile, I ploughed one this morning until it scream--”

“Brandon!” Lyanna interjected, shoving him again. Benjen delighted at the joke, and laughed until wine came out of his nose, which made Lyanna laugh until she could hardly breathe.

The sound of faraway laughter seemed to echo throughout the godswood, and made her feel more alone than ever.

 

* * *

 

It was dark when Arthur found her kneeling before the heart tree, feeling empty and cold. She hugged herself as he came nearer, too mournful and ashamed to look at him.

“Lyanna,” Arthur’s calm, even voice called out. It was hard steel now, so unlike the molten metal from before. “The way you spoke to my sister was most unkind.”

Lyanna shivered, but stayed silent.

“You’ll not speak like that to any of my siblings again,” Arthur commanded in a stern tone that reminded her of her father. “They have done nothing. They spent the war on Dragonstone, their fates in my hands. They fought no battles, took no action--”

“I know,” Lyanna cut in, voice hoarse. Though she was still a little drunk and more than a little dizzy, she had grasped the measure of her own unkindness quickly. “I will apologize to them forthwith.”

Arthur did not reply, but moved closer. She could hear his boots crackle leaves underfoot, growing closer and closer until he stopped beside her. He squatted in place, but Lyanna did not turn to look at him. Still, he reached out, and pushed her curtain of hair behind her ear. It must have fallen out of her plait when she ran to the tree.

“It is so hard to look at you all,” Lyanna confessed in a small voice, unable to keep it in any longer. “The love between you… It is so hard to look at. I had three siblings too, once. They loved me and I loved them-- they were my whole life.” She licked her lips to try and ease the dryness. “Now I have none. I miss them. I miss their love.”

“You are not alone, Lyanna,” Arthur said.

“Yes, I am. I have nobody to love and no one to love me. You reminded me of that.” Did he mean to? She hoped not. She could not take any more intentional cruelty. “I have not felt this cold in so long.” She hugged herself tighter. “Of all the terrible things I’ve felt, I did not expect to feel envy. What a horrible thing to feel.” It weighed heavy on the heart, and tight around her throat. It was rage and sorrow all at once, and cut her deeper than it should.

 _I’m jealous of the living,_ she thought. _I should be jealous of the dead._

“Forgive me,” he murmured after a period of silent consideration. “I thought they would be a balm for your heart. I did not mean to bring you pain.”

If she did not know him for his honesty, she might have laughed. _When you stood opposite my brothers on the Trident, I doubt you even thought of me and my pain,_ she wanted to say. But there was no sense in it; he meant the pain he brought with the presence of his siblings, not with the battle.

She unwound her arms and pressed her hands to her face to wipe away any tears that may have fallen, and the last of her shame. “I feel like a fool,” she mumbled. The gaze of the heart tree was heavy upon her. Lyanna glanced up at it and its red tears. _You witness my shame over and over and yet you do nothing,_ she accused the tree, and thus the old gods. _What is left for me to do? Cut out my heart and offer it to you?_

“Let me escort you to your rooms,” Arthur said, recalling her from her pleas.

“No. I must apologize to your sister,” Lyanna insisted as she started to her feet. She moved too fast, became dizzy, and swiftly returned to her knees.

“It can wait till morning.” He rose and offered a hand to her. Lyanna took it, despite how feeble and meek she already felt. When she got to her feet, she found she swayed upon them, the wine still exerting its grip around her. Arthur steadied her by the arm, and patiently waited for her to right herself.

“I embarrassed myself,” she mumbled, despondent. “I am so…”

_So stupid. I am supposed to be a ruler, not a stupid little girl._

“They knew you were not yourself,” Arthur assured her with more gentleness than she deserved. “Not just my siblings, but everyone who saw you.”

“But that was me,” Lyanna confessed. “Envious and angry and unhappy-- that was myself.”

“That is not what they believe,” Arthur returned. “That is what matters, in the end.”

She looked into his open, honest face to root out a lie, but found none. He saw the world much simpler than she did, yet he spoke truly and wisely. Perhaps neither of them had been raised to rule, but Arthur seemed to know the hearts of men better than she. He was older, worldly, a commander-- meanwhile Lyanna had been a spoilt princess and never saw outside of the North, and even what she had seen was so little.

Maester Luwin was likely right about him. Men would follow him, if only because he knew how to make them do it, because he was strong and level-headed and wise. Meanwhile, Lyanna Stark gave into the basest of emotions after only a few goblets of wine.

Lyanna recalled that her hand was still in his, and that his steady hand rested on her arm. She drew away from him meekly. “You are the soul of chivalry, ser,” she whispered, as honest as she could be. Away from his touch, Lyanna was now keenly aware of the emptiness of her stomach. It felt as if wine was sloshing around inside her; it nearly made her sick. She covered her middle with her arms. “I feel ill,” she admitted.

“You need to eat,” Arthur advised gently. “Unless…”

She looked up at his expectant face.

“Unless what?”

“Are you with child?”

Lyanna shook her head sadly. “My moon’s blood arrived. No doubt it is only serving to make me feel worse.”

“Then you need food, and a bed,” Arthur concluded. “Go to your bedchamber, and I will bring food up for you. Here.” He offered his hand again, and out of her own meekness, she took it. He led her through the godswood with a gentle hold on her hand. When they emerged from the trees, Lyanna gathered enough good sense to retract her hand before anyone could see them. She followed him through the dark courtyard, her eyes on the ground, too wary to look up and meet the eyes of anyone who might have witnessed her shame. They parted indoors, and Arthur turned to the kitchens as Lyanna finished her graceless trek up to her bedchambers.

In her bed, Lyanna sat up with her head leaned back against the headboard. The room kept swaying and spinning around her and she suddenly felt insufferably hot. From her place in bed, Lyanna tried to pull her tunic over her head but with little luck. Her hands were clumsy and she felt unsteady as soon as her face disappeared into the darkness of her tunic. Then another pair of hands seemed to be helping her, and the tunic was pulled off, leaving her in her shift, which was still tucked into her trousers. She looked to her helper and was almost glad to see it be Arthur. He had placed a tray of food on her nightstand as he took her tunic and deposited it at the end of her bed.

“Have you never gotten drunk before?” Arthur asked as he gave her a piece of bread from the tray.

“I have,” she said as she took a small bite. “With Benjen. We got drunk on summerwine.” That was a fond memory, one comprised of giggles and hisses to stay quiet so that father didn’t know that they were drinking. “It was more pleasant than this.”

Arthur offered a ghost of a smile in response. He seemed comfortable where he was, in a chair pulled up to her bedside, but a twinge of guilt ate at her.

“You should return to your siblings,” Lyanna said. “I’ll be fine.”

“They will be here a while; they’ll not miss me for an hour or so.”

Lyanna did not try to continue arguing, having no energy for it. She kept eating her bread, glad to have something in her stomach to soak up all the wine. Arthur dutifully handed her the trencher with mutton on it when she finished, and Lyanna began to eat it gratefully.

“Did you break your fast this morning?” he asked her.

Lyanna swallowed her bite before replying. “I think I did. I had an egg,” she recalled.

“Then you trained in the yard.”

She nodded.

“You’re not eating enough, then,” he seemed to be reprimanding her, however kindly. “That will not do.”

“Don’t scold me,” she said weakly.

“I am not.” He leaned forward, his dark purple eyes fixed intently on her. “But you must take better care of yourself.”

“I know,” she admitted in a mumble. To keep from having to speak again, she stuck a large piece of mutton in her mouth. Arthur did not look at her as she ate, but instead seemed rather engrossed by the fiddling of his thumbs and the incessant bounce of his leg. Even in Lyanna’s uncertain state she could surmise that his thoughts were occupied. She swallowed the large bite in her mouth and eyed him.

“They’re all very nice,” she began softly. This did not garner a reaction from him. “Especially Ashara. She is remarkable— and so beautiful. I have never seen anyone lovelier.”

“Yes, but…” He sighed and folded his hands over the edge of the bed. “She is horribly cross with me now. After you left, we had something of a quarrel.” Lyanna tried to imagine the subdued Arthur and the smiling Ashara arguing, but failed to conjure up the image. “I should have told her everything. I spared her the details about the battle to… to save face, I suppose. To spare her feelings.”

An understandable sentiment, she supposed, though it painted a false picture of what had transpired. Still, it was difficult to resummon her rage. It seemed to Lyanna that every older brother had a desire to protect their younger kin from terrible truths, but she knew that they could not be spared forever. The longer they went unsaid, the harder it would be to hear them one day. “I should not have announced it so callously,” Lyanna confessed in a small voice, ashamed of herself.

“It was the truth, and one I should have spoken before.” He sighed, then rubbed his face. He looked tired. “I have been inconsiderate. I have been quick to forget your own loss and sorrow. I had hoped my siblings could become your siblings. A foolish thought.”

“I don’t understand,” Lyanna said. She had siblings; they could not be replaced.

“I thought that they might bring you joy or help you heal, the way they do for me. Ali and Allyria… children are easy to get along with, as they’re open-hearted and kind. Ali is not a child, I know, but he has the heart of one. Ashara is caring, sensitive to others, and I believed you might find comfort in that.” He looked down at his hands again, perhaps embarrassed or ashamed. “I thrust them upon you rather than let you learn them on your own. Worse yet, I did not see your discomfort until it was too late.”

Lyanna turned her face away from him, to try and get a better grasp of his words without distraction. His intentions had been noble, but his actions were ignorant. Perhaps in her heart of hearts she knew that he did not mean to hurt her, but by the gods, she was hurt.

“I wanted to rage at you,” he continued quietly. “The way you spoke to them-- I cannot allow that, not from anyone.”

“It will not happened again,” Lyanna returned, abashed. Just thinking about it made her feel sick; her rage was better directed at others who deserved it, not them.

“I know it will not-- nor will I push you to such unhappiness again. I am sorry, Lyanna,” he said, drawing her gaze back to him. He moved to sit on the edge of her bed; their shoulders touched as he grasped her hand and held them over his lap. “I feel as if I’ve failed you. Worse, I fear I will continue to fail you if we do not change. I do not want this to be the state of our marriage. Confusion and anger and grief— these are not things we should surround our children with.”

 _Children._ So many people seemed sure about the existence of more than single child-- even Arthur.

“I know I could never undo your pain,” Arthur said softly. “I could never apologize enough. But I will try harder to be someone you can rely on. In turn, I ask that you confide in me more often. Even if you come to me with your rage and your blame— I would rather hear it out loud than wonder what sort of storm is brewing in your heart.”

Though she was still a little drunk and of poor faculties, Lyanna was touched at these words. He was asking her to share her heart’s burden with him, though she had her heart blocked and sealed off to everyone. It’s true, that perhaps if she had been honest with him about her feelings, this might have been avoided. She did not speak enough, and he did not know how to read her. Whether due to drink or her own emotion, Lyanna felt herself soften toward him.

“Okay,” she agreed. He gave her hand a squeeze, then he brushed her forehead with his lips. Lyanna felt drawn to his warmth, and moved her head from the headboard to his chest. His arms circled around her to hold her, and in her own pathetic state, she let him. “I will never get this drunk again,” she promised.

She could feel the rumble of his laugh in his chest. “A wise resolution,” he said.

“I feel so stupid,” she admitted softly.

“You made a mistake,” he returned gently as his hand smoothed down her hair. “And one that many people make, and very often.”

“But I can’t make mistakes,” she said. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell, and a Stark.”

“Would that names and titles protected us against mistakes. They do not.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Then I will simply have to do better from now on. Starting with an apology for your siblings.”

“I will do better as well. But for now, I ask that you finish eating, then sleep,” he commanded gently. “There will be time to fix things tomorrow.”

His heartbeat played a steady, soothing rhythm against her ear. She could fall asleep like this, if she wanted to.

“Why are you taking care of me?” she asked in a slow mumble.

“Because you’re my wife,” he answered. “Because I swore a vow to care for you.”

“Not really. You swore a vow to protect me.”

“It is all the same to me.”

She wondered if it really was the same. Protection was a duty. Care came from the heart.

“You’re so warm,” she remarked as her eyelids drooped. Despite this observation, she drew away from him and moved onto her back. With slow and clumsy hands, she tried to undo the laces of her trousers. “Help me with these,” she said with a sigh.

Arthur’s defter fingers undid her trousers, and helped to pull them off. Then, with a chivalrous touch, he drew the crumpled hem of her shift over her hips and thighs.

“Don’t sleep yet,” he commanded gently. He conjured up a cup of water. “Drink as much water as you can before you sleep.”

“I’ll have to piss soon,” Lyanna complained as she took the cup.

“The chamberpot is in the privy,” he returned with a small smile. “Drink, then sleep.”

Lyanna took a sip of the water for his sake. He returned to the chair and busied himself with moving the trencher of food she had left haphazardly on her bed and back onto the tray it came in on. He really did like cleanliness, Lyanna noted, and order-- her clothes were folded at the food of the bed, though she did not even remember Arthur doing so. They were, unfortunately, different in that regards. She was used to leaving strewn clothes and rumpled sheets; there were always servants to pick up after her. She wondered if he picked up such neat habits as a boy on Dragonstone or as a man in the field.

There were so many things she did not know about him. By the gods, she didn’t even know he was Dornish until a moon’s turn into their marriage, she didn’t know he had other siblings, she didn’t know anything at the start other than that he was her brother’s killer. Lyanna thought that was all she needed to know. Now, she was not so sure.

She didn’t like having questions without answers. She liked knowing things, people most of all. She had reasoned out his nature, of a man who was loyal and dutiful, but everything else was a mystery.

Should she uncover his truths? Should she unravel him, and read what she pulled apart? Perhaps she could find a friend in him-- no, not a friend, but a partner. What would her brothers say to that? Was she selfish for seeking out this man, of all men, to mend her loneliness? Did she deserve to be selfish?

She thought of her outburst today, and his rage. She had never seen him so angry, never thought to see him in such a way. He was angry on his siblings’ behalf, and perhaps even a little angry at himself. His rage had frightened her, but it reassured her too. The man who struck down Brandon was not a dog made of stone, then. There was something more underneath.

Though they were comfortable in their stillness and their silence, Lyanna reached out to where his hand was on the bed. She brushed his fingertips with her own. _I cannot give this up,_ she realized hopelessly. _I will always need someone’s touch, whether they be friend or brother or lover or husband._ She laced her fingers with his, and he tightened the hold.

Lyanna closed her eyes. _I’m drunk,_ she determined, _and a fool._

“Thank you,” she mumbled as the pull of sleep grew more tempting.

She felt the cup of water in her hand be pulled from her grasp and touched to her lips. “Drink,” he said in a hushed voice.

She parted her lips and tilted her head back to drink. She had not been doted on in this way in so long-- since she was a child, she believed. But pride could not be summoned, and those dark and dangerous thoughts were kept at bay, for now. She would let herself be taken care of, for the night.

_Perhaps that’s what the gods have offered me tonight: respite._

Only for the night, though. It only ever seemed to last a night. With clearer thought, she might have noticed how nights spent with Arthur Dayne were often her most peaceful. The idea was there, fluttering in the corner of her mind, but she could not grasp it.

Once the cup was empty, she fell asleep with her hand in his, curled up towards him, warm and exhausted.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna makes her own repairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay on this chapter; between graduating from college and going on a month long vacation, I did not have much time to write. I'm back now and I hope to have a more regular schedule!
> 
> Enjoy!

When Lyanna rose the next morning, a headache accompanied her.

She groaned as she flopped back down onto her pillows, almost amazed at how much her head hurt. It was as if there was a little man in her skull thumping away at the inside with a hammer. When a knock came at her door she groaned again-- it sounded louder than it had any right to be. It was Lyla who appeared with a tray in hand. It was piled on with food and drinks, but Lyanna was in no mood to eat. She still felt like she was going to hurl her stomach’s contents.

“You must eat, your grace,” Lyla insisted softly. “The maester prepared a remedy for your headache.” She handed a goblet out to her.

“How does he...?” Lyanna began to ask, before she belatedly answered the question herself. The maester no doubt heard of her spectacle the day before, knew she had plied herself with drink and would wake the next morning feeling like there was a procession of drums in her head. She wordlessly took the goblet, which was warm and smelled like honey, and downed it as quickly as she could. The aftertaste was not terrible, but it was strong enough that she wanted to eat some of the food laid out to her to be rid of it.

When Lyla left, Lyanna ate what she could manage as her headache slowly melted away. It never went away entirely, and indeed there was still a thumping to be felt, but it was a soft pitter patter compared to what she felt before. It was quickly afterwards that she recalled the events of the day before, of her outburst, of the memory in the godswood, and Arthur’s subsequent apology and care. She burned with embarrassment at all of it, but for some reason it was Ali’s expression of muted curiosity that had appeared to her in sharp relief and shamed her the most.

She turned her face to the pillows and groaned into it. She had to apologize. She had to fix things. As she promised Arthur, she would also simply have to do  _ better _ . She remembered that he had been sitting in the chair beside her bed when she slept, but he was not there anymore, and her bed did not look slept in beyond her. He must have left at some point; she wondered if it was last night, or this morning.

It did not matter. She kicked off the furs and rose to wash her face, which looked haggard and beyond her years. She brushed her hair in hard, quick strokes, not even bothering with a plait. When she went to her wardrobe to pick out clothes, she stopped and felt herself confounded.

Half her gowns were black now, having had them dyed after her brothers’ deaths. The gowns that were undyed seemed too bright and clean in comparison. She reached out to touch one, a grey garment that was simple in its design, and considered it.

_ It has been four moons’ turns,  _ she told herself.  _ How long will I wear black? Until I stop mourning them? I will never stop. _

It was such a hard choice to make, harder than it should have been.

_ They are only colors, _ she thought.  _ They do not mean anything. But... _

There would be a time to rejoice, one day. Today was not that day. She picked out one of her simpler gowns of black, and dressed quickly before she reconsidered her choice. Then, finally, she left her rooms to search for the unfairly maligned Dayne siblings.

It was later in the day than she expected it to be. The wine must have knocked her out cold into that dreamless sleep. The great hall was empty of diners, and when she went outside, she found that Winterfell was alive with activity. Lyanna looked at the sun’s place in the sky, a hand shielding her from the light.  _ Nearly midday, _ she noted with a frown. She had slept for far too long.

It was fair to assume that Arthur was either in the winter town, or some place with his siblings. Either way, it was not Arthur she sought. She would have to ask after them. As she moved to find a sharp-eyed castle servant to answer her question, she saw Lord Poole crossing the courtyard from the direction of the library tower, and headed towards her. Lyanna stifled her exhausted sigh; she was in no mood to discuss money and politics with her steward, not now. She flitted her eyes frantically across the yard in hopes of finding someone to save her from the impending conversation. She could see Ser Rodrik and Jory speaking together, their backs to her. They would be no help that way.

“Your grace,” Lord Poole’s voice called out. 

Lyanna looked to the steward, trapped. “My lord,” she answered wearily. 

“Did you pen the Lord Commander’s letter?” he asked.

Lyanna could not stifle it this time; she groaned. “I did not get the chance, my lord. I will…” She tried to make her aching head think faster. “I will write it once I have the men he desires.”

“That may take time. Until then, a small letter of acknowledgement--”

“Please, Beron,” Lyanna interrupted. “I will have the letter for you tonight. A day will not make a difference.”

“I am only trying to advise you, your grace,” he returned, sounding wounded.

“I know,” Lyanna added hurriedly. “I appreciate your advice, truly. But as of right now, I should like to find the Daynes, not answer a sour Lord Commander’s letter.”

Beron ran a hand through his dark beard. “I believe they’re in the glass garden, your grace.”

Lyanna perked up at the information. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, and patted the man’s arm reassuringly before beginning a quick march to the garden.

The glass garden at Winterfell was one of her favorite places on the grounds. The greenhouse was an impressive structure, bigger than even the guest house, and more beautiful by far. The blue-green glass was clear, without blemishes or cracks, and offered a tinted view into the plentiful gardens. Inside, they grew everything anyone could ever want-- vegetables of all sorts, fruits that could be sweet or sour, and flowers of many colors. It was the flowers Lyanna loved most, in particular her bush of blue winter roses, which were due to bloom soon. Winter was coming-- Lyanna could feel it in the air.

Inside the greenhouse, however, no one could feel it. The air was warm and humid, the entirety of the gardens heated by the very same hot springs that kept Winterfell warm. Inside, there were gardeners tending to the plants, treating them with the same care one might pay a child. The nearest one offered a bow and a small smile when she saw her enter; another one of Winterfell’s workers that have been here for as long as she can remember. Lyanna gave her a smile in return, walked toward the back of the gardens.

The siblings were huddled around a grape vine tower in the section where fruits were grown. Allyria and Ali were kneeling in the dirt, seemingly unbothered by stains, while Ashara hovered over them attentively. Lyanna was light enough on her feet that they did not hear her when she came near. 

“Good morn-- afternoon,” Lyanna said aloud. Allyria and Ashara quickly whirled about, eyes wide with alarm before they appeared to relax.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Ashara said with a curtsey. She smiled dimly, so much unlike yesterday’s blinding grin. “We were just tasting your grapes.”

At those words, Allyria popped a fat purple grape into her mouth. She made a pinched face and shook her head. “Sour,” she squeaked out.

Lyanna couldn’t help but laugh. “They’re not ripe yet,” she said. “Give them time, and they’ll be so sweet that you can hardly get enough of them.”

Allyria paid her a small smile. Then Ali rose, towering over them, with a handful of grapes in his palm. He looked over at Lyanna, and extended his hands out to her.

“I believe he’d like you to take one, my lady,” Ashara explained gently.

Lyanna blinked and took a grape from his hands. The man gave her a lopsided grin, and put the rest of his grapes in a pouch at his hip. The simple gesture made Lyanna feel abashed, for some reason. She rolled the grape between her fingers, eyes cast downward.

“I owe all three of you an apology,” she said quietly. She fixed her gaze on each of them, and landed last on Ashara. “I said some horrible things and was terribly unkind to you all. I am sorry.”

She looked to the siblings to measure their reactions. Ali did not appear to hear her, Allyria looked to her older sister for a cue, and Ashara’s smile slipped, replaced with a serious expression.

“My lady, you are not the only one who must apologize,” the eldest sister said. “Allyria, Ali, the lady and I will walk together.”

Ashara took gentle hold of Lyanna’s arm before she quickly withdrew her hand to join the other folded over her front. She nodded towards the front of the garden, and set a pace that Lyanna followed. Once they were a ways away from the others, hidden amongst the tomato vines, Ashara stopped and turned towards her.

“My lady, I am so sorry,” Ashara began softly.

“What for?” Lyanna asked, puzzled. 

“For my stupidity,” she continued. “I was blinded by reuniting with my brother. It has been a year since I had last seen him. I knew of your loss, and yet I was too caught up in my own joy to think of what sort of an unwelcome sight we were. It was callous and unkind.”

“Lady Ashara--” Lyanna began, but was cut off again.

“All I knew of this war was what he wrote to me, and what I heard,” the woman continued, sounding angry rather than despondent. “He had not thought to mention who struck down your brother-- he stills thinks me a child, it seems, whose heart needs protecting. I am a woman grown. Older than you, and you have already felt loss more keenly than I ever hope to know. I will not be quick to forgive his behavior, I promise you.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Lyanna said, feeling somewhat abashed. She had not expected such an admission, or an apology-- but it was good to hear. 

The woman before her visibly relaxed as she came down from her brief rage. She looked up and around them, an inquisitive glint in her eye.

“These gardens are unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” Ashara mused softly. “I have not seen much, I must admit, but I have never heard of such glass houses.”

“We call it the glass garden. It is ancient.”

“It does not appear to be,” Ashara said. “And it is so warm inside-- I did not expect that.”

“They are built on top of hot springs,” Lyanna explained amiably. “Just as the castle is. We are always warm in Winterfell.”  _ In body, at least. _

“A thing to keep in mind, when deciding to stay,” Ashara said. Then her gaze flicked to her quickly, eyes slightly wide with alarm. “If that is alright by you, my lady. If you do not want us in your castle, we will gladly go south to my half-brother’s castle.”

Lyanna shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said quietly. Winterfell was home to many; to begrudge a few more harmless inhabitants would be unworthy of her and her name. “You may do whatever you please.”

Ashara nodded, perhaps taking her words into consideration. “It is a decision I must make soon,” she continued. She turned towards the rosebush beside them, adorned with close blue rosebuds. “My half-brother’s wedding is soon. I may leave to witness it.”

Lyanna had no true interest in Rhaegar’s affairs, but unfortunately the dragon king’s fate was tied closely to hers-- or rather, to those who had great bearing on her own fate. “Did Arthur mention a similar desire?” Lyanna asked, offhandedly she hoped, as she turned her gaze to the rosebush. The blue buds were closed, not sensing the cold of winter yet.  _ Soon _ .

“My brother insists on performing his duty here,” Ashara answered. “Which leaves House Dayne absent at Rhaegar’s wedding.”

“Will the king mind?” She could not bring herself to utter the name.

“Rhaegar understands duty well, and understands Arthur-- he is a man of action, not ceremony.”

Lyanna cocked a brow at that. “What do they say about the Lannister woman?” She asked, changing the subject off her husband.

“They say she is beautiful— the fairest maid in the realm. Her wealth is quite fair, too.”

Lyanna glanced at Ashara to see a coy smile upon her lips. Lyanna could not help but smile in turn.

“That is what it often boils down to, it seems,” Lyanna murmured. “The best brides are wealthy and beautiful.”  _ And vulnerable, _ she nearly added. Though even without the addition, the description rang true with or without Rhaegar’s conquest. A Stark bride was the finest acquisition in the North-- a pity that it fell into southron hands.

Lyanna watched as Ashara fingered the closed bud of a winter rose. “When do these bloom?” she asked, shy of this subject.

“When winter comes,” Lyanna answered. She brushed a finger down the stem, but paused before she pricked her finger on a thorn. “Excuse me, Lady Ashara. I have some duties to attend to.”

Ashara nodded. “Please, do not let me keep you, my lady.” She dipped into a curtsey that Lyanna returned with a gracious nod.

It would not be so bad to have Arthur’s siblings here, she decided. They were quiet, and kind, and might make for occasional good company. Beyond that, she could not determine precisely what she felt for them. She would leave it to Arthur to provide them with affection; she did not have the time to arrange such a thing herself. 

Lyanna traded the warmth of the glass garden for the welcome briskness of the morning air. The pounding that had dulled to a thumping in her head was threatening to return to at the change of weather. Still, she had the feeling it would not be as terrible as it was in the morning; part of the ache had been due to her own fretting over the apology she owed the Dayne siblings, and now that that was done, she had one less thing to bother her head. Nevertheless, if the ache did return, she would see Maester Luwin for a second dose of that draught.

It was the winter town she headed towards, for inspections of different sorts. She had not paid enough attention to the progress of the improvement and repairs she had ordered. She needed to get a better count of the wounded. Then there was the matter of Arthur’s northmen to see to, the ones who would not go home. 

They were, at the very least, owed an audience. The repairs in the winter town would not go on forever, and if it was work they sought, she could surely find it for them. Every pair of hands mattered in the North, no matter how burnt and unseemly.

She cut a slow, dark figure among the hustle and bustle of the winter town. It was even busier than it would be in the winter, with maesters and their understudies moving from one house to the next, men with tools working quickly to finish their repairs, and shrewd merchants who had quickly realized that there was money to be made when so many bodies were in one place. It was easy for Lyanna, alone and unadorned, to pass through unnoticed.

She found them working all over the town. Men with bandaged faces and missing appendages fitted window panes and patched roofs and fixed the hinges on doors. They worked with a disposition that was far gloomier than Arthur’s southerners, who tended to exchange jests and laughs whenever they could sneak it past their stern commander. A shadow seemed to hang over them-- one marked by uncertainty and despair.

Lyanna stared, transfixed, at one man who, despite a missing hand, worked diligently at chopping wood when commanded. It often took more than one strike, but he persevered very well.

“What do you have in mind for him?” Arthur’s voice suddenly cut through the noise and gave her a start. She turned sharply in his direction, beside and behind her. His question was asked with a serious expression and crossed arms. She may have been irritated had she not still felt leftover tenderness-- and embarrassment --from the night before. 

“A couple of things,” Lyanna said simply. It almost felt silly to hide such harmless thoughts when she had already exposed more of herself than she ever intended to him-- especially after the rather embarrassing events of the day before. “Though I should like to start with having him and the others dine in my hall.”

Arthur shifted on his feet as he seemed to consider that. He was noticeably less disheveled than she usually caught him, either due to the early hour or his own distance from work. “I can extend the invitation, if you’d like,” he said.

“On  _ my _ behalf,” Lyanna added. “You may do that. How goes the work in the winter town?”

“I would say we are nearly done,” Arthur replied, not skipping a beat. “Most of what we do now is reinforcements, to make the repairs last longer. It should all be done before the moon’s turn.”

“Good,” Lyanna said approvingly. A tense silence passed between them, as both appeared to have questions unasked. It was Arthur who chanced the first one.

“I do not envy the headache you surely woke with,” he said softly. “I hope that was remedied?”

“The maester had the foresight to send along a draught,” Lyanna replied, looking away from his appraising glance. “I spoke to your sister this morning.”

“Oh,” was all Arthur said. It was his turn to look away, and Lyanna’s turn to stare. 

“She accepted my apology, and offered one of her own,” Lyanna continued, pretending to be ignorant of his sober change of mood. 

“Good,” Arthur said impassively. 

_ Yesterday you were all smiles when it came to mention of your sister, ser,  _ Lyanna thought, almost smug.  _ A quarrel does not sit well with you.  _ She tucked the thought away for the meantime.

“I will leave you to your work, then,” Lyanna finally said. “You will report to me when you consider the repairs to the winter town finished.”

He looked back to her. “Will I be tasked with something else afterward?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Why don’t you go south, for your half-brother’s wedding?” Lyanna tried to hide her ire at the mention of Rhaegar Targaryen-- even without uttering his name, contempt still whispered at the words  _ half-brother _ .

“There is no need. I have no duty there.”

“And you have one here?”

“I should think I do,” he answered cooly. “To you, at least.”

Lyanna stiffened and raised her chin. “You should go.”

“If that is not an order, then I choose to stay.” He met her raised chin with an even look-- not a challenge, but a resolution.

Lyanna turned heel and left the knight standing alone, unwilling to pursue the matter any further. If he wished to stay, then she could not force him out, nor was there a real need to. It was better that he stayed, lest Rhaegar send him back with a new torment designed for her. She didn’t need the dragons whispering to and working through their wyvern half-brother.  _ He ought to stay close, for now,  _ Lyanna decided.  _ Until he does his duty and puts a child inside me.  _ _ By then, they can have him. _

 

* * *

 

 

Lyanna was not always ignorant to her father’s delegation. There were some simple matters of ruling that she knew and understood, solely because they were matters that would be expected of her as a lady wife to a lord husband that may sometimes be absent from his castle. There were rules of dining, for example, that were simple and the most satisfying for everyone involved. High lords sat at higher tables on the dais, smallfolk sat at lower tables— that was all simple matters that every child knew. But there was the matters of food itself, too, of who ate what and when.

Lyanna’s great hall had been absent of lords and ladies for many moons, if the Dayne siblings were excluded, and in their places were Winterfell men and soldiers she had invited from the winter town. Platters of food reached Lyanna and Arthur first-- fragrant dishes of lamb, and bird and pies. Lyanna turned away most foods, not hungry, while Arthur gladly took his share. The plates would then move down to Arthur’s siblings, who sat on Arthur’s side, and were quieter than they had been yesterday. Afterward, the food arrived to the soldiers. They were generous portions and rich foods, no doubt tastier and warmer than whatever had been trickling out to the winter town as they had laid in recovery. It was a reward and, by some measure, something of a bribe. She had promised Beron a letter by tonight, after all, and a letter that accompanied men. 

Lyanna eyed them throughout supper, trying to memorize their features so that she would feel more comfortable speaking to them later. Some of them, she surmised, were more able than others. There were some with stumps for limbs, many with burns that had melted away parts of their faces. One shook terribly as he moved food to his mouth; another appeared to her to be perfectly whole, until he turned to speak to the man next to him, and found half his body ruined. No matter how often horror jumped up her throat and tried to pull her gaze away, Lyanna continued to remind herself that these men were northmen who shared the field with her brothers. The scars they bore now were evidence of their loyalty. 

“You still have not told me what you plan to do with them,” Arthur’s voice whispered in her ear. Lyanna tugged her eyes away from a laughing soldier to pin her husband with an irritated glare.

“What does it matter to you?” she asked, more sharply than she should.

“We promised no secrets,” he returned with a little frown.

“Not in such words,” she said with a huff. His disappointed stare quickly broke her resolve down. “I received a letter from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He asks for men.”

Arthur blinked. “And you intend to give him these men?”

“Whoever is willing to go, shall go.” Lyanna’s frown deepened at Arthur’s quiet questioning. “What? Are they not whole enough to work? You’ve seen what they can do in the winter town.”

“But the Wall is…” He trailed off, then quickly looked away.

“The Wall is  _ what _ ?” Lyanna asked, irritation mounting anew. There was nothing Arthur could teach her about a wall built and manned by her own ancestors.  “What do you know of the Wall?”

“I’ve seen it,” he answered.

“You’ve  _ seen _ it?” Lyanna could feel herself gawking. She had never seen the Wall-- her own brothers had never seen it, and perhaps not even her father. “Liar.”

“Do you think Rhaegar conquered Westeros without first laying eyes upon what he hoped to take?” Arthur said, with a shake of his head as if it should be have obvious. “The Lord Commander is a Dornishman, of House Qorgyle. He liked me better than Rhaegar, by virtue of blood alone. A sour man, nonetheless.” His face was a mask of calm, as if his words carried little weight and consequence. Yet to Lyanna, it was as if she had opened a new, unread chapter in a book that wrote itself before her very eyes. “The Wall will be hard,” Arthur continued. “The vows alone are difficult-- and the cold…”

“The North is hard, and northmen are hardened by it,” Lyanna said harshly. She was glad that the Dayne siblings were not close enough to hear, for surely her tone would have earned her concerned glances from the inquisitive siblings. “Work and the cold are no strangers to these men.”

“Some of these men may be married, or have someone waiting for them back in their villages,” Arthur said carefully. “They must give that up, and the comforts of women and family besides.”

“I am not issuing an order,” Lyanna returned. “I am making them an offer. Their time in the winter town will not last. Those that do not return to their homes will find themselves without work. The Wall will give them food, and a home, and honor, and purpose. It will give them all of that, and more, until the very end.”

Arthur’s expression appeared thoughtful as he considered her words. “You are right,” he finally said, with a hint of warmth. “You offer them a good thing.”

Lyanna opened her mouth to prepare to protest, but closed it once she found him in agreement. She nodded, then rose to her feet. Her approach towards the soldiers was met with surprise, then frantic prostration as they dropped their foods, slid off the benches, and dipped into low bows.

“My good men, you needn’t bow for me,” Lyanna said, but despite her words she smiled at the show of respect. “It is I who should bow for you, and honor you all for your bravery. You stood with my brothers and bear the marks of it proudly. I am forever in your debts.” The words flowed out of her mouth like silk, smooth and soft. She did not need to think of it-- she meant it, truly, and because of it they were easy words to speak. “I cannot promise you all work at Winterfell, though I wish I could. But there are places other than here that need you. The Wall searches for men-- good men, brave men, with skills on the field and with any talents you have to offer.” She dragged her gaze slowly across the men, trying to commit to memory each face, both the marred and the unblemished.

“You all possess honor in excess. The Wall offers you even more, and a chance to defend not only the North, but all of Westeros from the threats beyond the Wall. Not only in battle, but in simpler things too, the things that have kept such old organizations alive and their men hale and hearty. This is not a command from your lady; for those who would rather be elsewhere, you have my leave. But for those who seek something more, something different, I remind you of the Night’s Watch.” Lyanna folded her hands in front of her skirts. “For those who are interested, please speak to my steward. If there is anything you should seek from me, a boon from House Stark, you need only to ask it of me.”

Lyanna lingered, so she may hear any words they might offer, but the men remained as they were, silent and staring. Were they approving? Confused? Irritated that a young woman had swept in and interrupted her dinner? She could not say. But when she offered them a curtsey, it seemed as if the whole hall had mimicked the soldiers and fell silent too.

_ Let that be enough, _ Lyanna pleaded as she turned away from them.  _ Let it be enough to move at least one man to go North. _

She settled back into her seat at the high table. She glanced past Arthur, towards Ashara, who gave her a sweet, comforting smile. Lyanna bit back her own smile as she turned her focus to her empty plate, suddenly ravenous. A piece of bread appeared in the corner of her eye. Lyanna looked to Arthur, who held it out to her with a smile hidden behind his hand. She took the proffered bread with a huff, and bit in.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna participates in a horse race.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off-- I am *so* sorry for the delay! After returning from my trip, I got a job and simply didn't have the time or creative energy to write. This chapter took 3 drafts to write, and even what I have now is a sad little filler, really only meant to bridge to the next chapter. If it's any solace, I do have the next few chapters already partially written out, so there shouldn't be a delay on them.
> 
> Second thing-- I realize now that I have a lot of names that start with "A" lol. The Dayne siblings all start with A because we know that's how it is in canon (though Ali is admittedly my own invention, as he's not named in the books). Even the horse has a name starting with an A. For the sake of reading, the names Ali and Aly are indeed pronounced differently. Ali should be pronounced like the Arabic name Ali (think of Mohammad Ali). Aly is sort for Alysanne, so it should be pronounced the same way you pronounce "alley".
> 
> Third thing-- enjoy!

 

The crypts had felt cold for as long as Lyanna could remember. It had been the best and worst place to hide as a child-- no one thought to check there, where it was dark and long too big a task to find a person, but whoever chose that place as their nook would find themselves cold and unhappy rather quickly. As a girl it had been a place of curiosity-- a place where generations upon generations of Stark kings stared back at her with eyes made of stone, where their ancient swords struggled to catch the light of a passing candle. Her mother was buried there, though she was a woman with no statue to serve as her likeness. She was nothing more than a tomb with a name carved into it. It never felt like enough for this woman she barely knew, the woman who gave her and her brothers life-- however brief theirs was, and however dismal hers was now.

Lyanna moved down the crypts, past the old kings, to where Donnel’s work stood: three freshly carved statues of her brothers, sitting with sharp, new swords across their laps. When Donnel had first revealed them to her, she found them hard to look at, as if staring into those faces of stone would be as good as baring all her shame to them. They were only statues, she had to remind herself. They could not see her.

But the feeling could not be shaken. Still, Lyanna went to them, knowing it was her duty to do so. She replaced the candles whose wax had dwindled to little stubs, checked the swords for signs of rust, then stared at the direwolf carved at Brandon’s feet, wondering if she could ever be brave enough to face them.

She had no words to offer them-- and what was there to say? Apologies would be wasted. No matter the shame she felt, she could not think of a way to apologize for choosing survival over her virtue. Her maidenhead had been a small price to pay to keep the name that the inhabitants of these crypts shared for thousands of years. Yet she imagined many of them cursed her all the same-- for a whore, for a coward, for letting a stranger step into their home and call himself the lord of it. The kings must be cursing her, at least. Perhaps the queens understood such sacrifices better.

Lyanna held her hands, almost as if in prayer. “I do not care if you hate me,” she whispered around, to whoever would hear. “Only do not hate the son I will one day have, who will bear your name with pride.” It seemed like too soon to pray for an unborn child, once that had not even quickened in her womb, but it was the only request she could make-- the only one she would make, for she knew she had not earned any favors.

She pulled her gaze from the direwolf to Brandon’s face-- it was not the same as it was in life, but then it could never be. Stone had no breath, no pulse, no color. It was nothing more than a reminder, lest she forget what his face looked like one day. He looked serious in this likeness, brows set hard and jaw firm-- like a king, and not her japing, stormy brother. It did not suit him the way the sullenness on Ned’s statue suited him. Seriousness was expected from Ned, and welcomed too. A level head was necessary among such hot headed company.

And Benjen-- Donnel had captured his youth all too well. It was wrong beyond words that a little brother should die before her. It had been her duty to protect him, not the other way around. Another front she failed on.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured as lit the candles. The apology was the only thing that came naturally to her. Any other words would sound hollow.

Lyanna emerged from the crypts through its great ironwood doors, feeling warmer in the crisp outdoor air than she did below ground. She cut through the lichyard, past the Guard’s Hall and the First Keep, and into the courtyard. It was still early morning, but it did not mean there was a lack of movement. There was already workers and servants setting to their appointed tasks, ever mindful of their duties. The air had only been growing colder, and Lyanna still feared for the state of their stores. They needed more firewood, more food, more skins-- more of everything, really. When her steward spoke his reports, it almost seemed as if there were an endless list of things to craft and prepare for, but scarcely the time or the coin. The project in the winter town had been costly, but it was an investment that Beron assured her was well done. More healthy men meant more work, more coin being moved around in the North, and, eventually, even more men. Lyanna imagined there was no lack of widows in the North, and it would please her to have a growing population once more.

Lyanna stood in place and watched as Ser Rodrik helped Jory with training the new members of the guard. They were men healed from the winter town, who still had a desire to stand and fight for House Stark. Lyanna could not begrudge them that desire, and gave them each a wage and a freshly forged sword. It was the Cassels’ turn to hone them into men she could rely on. She imagined she would need them soon-- she had a desire to make a progress, to show that House Stark has not forgotten their sworn houses and would hear their grievances directly. The only difficulty in that idea was actually leaving Winterfell.

_ There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.  _ Like many cryptic sayings, she learned that one from her father first. She did not know what it meant, or why it was important. She only knew that she should heed it, for she was too afraid to see what would happen if she didn’t.

After sending a message to ask for Beron’s presence, Lyanna found that she some time to spare. She made her way past her guardsmen-in-training and to the stables, hoping to at least brush Aly’s coat before the guilt of doing something so selfish gnawed at her. She knew she could find work if she wanted-- letters to return, details to line up, numbers to look at --but she was tired of work. She missed those empty and aimless days she had as merely a princess, and cursed her younger self for not realizing how precious those free hours were. It was not an easy kingdom she came into, made all the more difficult by the circumstances under which she inherited it all. Nevertheless, she was the Lady of Winterfell-- and the Lady of Winterfell wanted so badly to brush her mare’s coat.

In the stables, she is met with the faint smell of horse dung (which could never go away, no matter how much you cleaned) and the smiles of the stable boys, though none as bright as Walder’s, Old Nan’s simple great-grandson.

“Hodor,” he said as he led her down the hay lined stables to her mare.

“Thank you, Walder,” Lyanna said, her voice doubled in warmth by the sight of her lovely black horse. 

“Hodor,” he said flatly, his gaze focused past her. Lyanna followed his eyes to where four figures stood at the end of the stables.

Ali seemed to be stroking the nose of a horse under Ashara and Arthur’s watchful eyes, with Allyria on her tiptoes so she could braid the horse’s mane. The two older siblings appeared amiable and smiling; she could only assume that they had made up at some point, though Lyanna did not inquire.

Returning her focus to Aly, she opened the stall door and stepped in. Her mare seemed glad enough to see her, turning her head to touch hers. Lyanna smiled at the contact, almost weeping at it-- she did not realize how much she missed such small and simple moments, moments where it felt like all was right and good.

“I’m sorry I do not see you more,” Lyanna whispered as she picked up the brush on the floor, still in the same place it was the last time Lyanna came to brush her. “I’ve missed you dearly.”

The horse happily resigned to standing straight and tall to allow Lyanna to brush her. Lyanna worked at her coat with water and brush until it shined and gleamed. Then, she untangled the knots in her mane till it was soft enough to run her fingers through. When Lyanna stepped away to admire her handiwork, her horse chose instead to come towards her and nuzzle her in thanks.

“You’re too sweet,” Lyanna whispered in a giggle. She took her horse’s face in her hands and found what she hoped was love in those deep, dark eyes.

“May I braid her mane?” A voice asked from beyond the stall. Lyanna looked toward the source, startled to find the entire Dayne brood watching her. Allyria appeared to be the source of the question, peeking up over the door of the stall with large, hopeful eyes.

“I…” Lyanna trailed off, surprised. When she looked to Ashara and Arthur, she found a shared expression of apology, as if they seemed to understand that their presence was something of an intrusion.

“Your horse was too lovely to pull them away,” Ashara offered with a small, embarrassed smile. At the mention of ‘them’, Lyanna saw that Ali was just as entranced by shiny black Aly, his wide purple eyes fixed on her and his mouth slightly parted.

Lyanna looked back at her mare, who almost seemed to preen under the attention.  _ Vain creature,  _ Lyanna japed to herself.

“Come in, then,” Lyanna said as she moved to open the stall door. “Aly does like her mane braided.”

Allyria gleefully skipped inside to set herself to the task. Ali followed her more slowly, more interested in stroking the horse’s nose as she saw him do earlier to another horse. 

“He is fond of horses,” Ashara offered in explanation. “Though he is too frightened to ride one himself.”

“Has he tried?” Lyanna asked.

“He hasn’t-- the fear begins with climbing into the saddle, it seems.”

“That is too bad.” Riding was a great joy in her life, and it could not be separated from her love of horses by any means. It was Brandon who taught her to ride-- but she learned to adore the beasts all on her own.

Lyanna gravitated back towards her mare, to observe the progress the two made. Allyria was working on a sleek braid. In her pockets she had stuffed little white flowers, and them in it as she moved along. Ali simply kept stroking the horse, whose head only seemed to rise higher with pride with each touch.

“Arthur likes horses,” Ali suddenly said in his soft voice.

Lyanna managed a smile for his sake. “I am rather fond of them too,” she said.

“Arthur rides horses very fast,” Ali added, still not looking to her.

“I’m sure I ride faster,” Lyanna quipped in return, not quite caring if it made her sound like a braggart. She knew her skill on the back of a horse, and had no reason to overstate it.

“Is that a challenge my lady?” Arthur’s voice quipped behind her, his first words to her this whole day.

Lyanna did not even look back to shrug. “You do not want a challenge, ser,” she said briskly.

“I’m sure this horse runs very fast, since she’s so pretty,” Allyria interjected, beaming.

“She does,” Lyanna insisted in turn, despite her better judgement. She could hardly pass up an opportunity to boast about her horse.

“Would you say a race is in order, Allyria?” Arthur asked, a smile evident in his tone.

Allyria gasped. “Will you race, Lady Lyanna?” The girl’s heart shaped face was all but glowing-- and even Ali’s interest was piqued at the mention of a race, his hand paused in his stroking to stare at her.

The desire to impress battled with her still rather newly matured mind. A  _ lady _ should not be dallying and racing when there were surely other things to be doing. She supposed there were a great many things she fell short of as a lady. Ever since taking up this mantle she did not want, she had felt like a girl playing at a woman’s game--but in riding, there were no such doubts. She knew she could do it best.

“I’ll race,” Lyanna said simply, trying her damndest to hide her excitement. It had been too long since she rode at anything faster than a trot, nor could she turn down an opportunity to leave someone in her dust.

Allyria’s elation was obvious as she let out a girlish squeal. Lyanna bit back her smile as she took down the saddle that hung on the wall and began to fit it on Aly. The horse too found her own joy in this, and nickered in a tone that Lyanna knew to be a horse’s form of excitement.

“I’ll ready my horse and find you at the north gate,” Arthur said from behind her.

“No, the south gate,” Lyanna returned without turning around, her hands busy with adjusting the girth. “Races are better done there.”

Once her horse was outfitted, Lyanna stepped back to take sight of her. Her mare’s ink black coat shone bright beneath the ironwood colored saddle, her mane braided delicately by Allyria’s careful hands, replete with tiny white flowers that would surely fall out by the end of the day. Aly preened at the attention, only too glad to be clean and saddled and studied.

Lyanna took hold of her reins and began to lead her out. She walked past the smiling Ashara, and was quickly followed by Allyria and Ali. The south gate was a short walk from the stables, and there she found Arthur already atop his all-white stallion with a number of men already gathered around him. The bulk of them were his own men, southron men, but as Lyanna walked out with Aly in hand, others began to pay attention. She took her place beside Arthur and climbed up into her saddle.

“What’s this, then?” A booming voice called out from behind her. Lyanna turned in her saddle to look at Ser Rodrik beaming beneath his whiskers. “A race?”

“Ser Arthur thinks he can best me,” Lyanna said simply, trying once again to keep from smiling. Ser Rodrik returned with a guffaw echoed by a few surrounding others.

“He can try,” the master-at-arms added. “Warm up your horses and come back to the gate.”

Lyanna urged Aly into a slow trot, to work the horse up for a long awaited gallop. She took her around in circles on the field, gradually working her up into a faster gait before slowing her down again. It was a familiar motion, not yet forgotten, but sorely missed. Lyanna had raced her brothers and any other brave contenders regularly, only too glad to have an opportunity to show her skill. She did not have mercy on anyone, whether they be young, spoiled lords or spry older men. Their pride was never her concern-- not when  _ her _ pride was at stake.

As her horse took heart in preparation, so did Lyanna. Her own limbs felt alive again, as muscles that were threatening to lose their tone began to stretch and warm again. She could have continued in those circles for another hour, keeping no true pace, only moving and riding and relishing in her favorite hobby. But when she saw Arthur return to the gates, Lyanna did the same. As they got into their starting positions, Ser Rodrik and Allyria stood ahead and between them. The girl held a white ribbon and all but trembled with excitement.

“You’ll ride to the first tree and return through the gates again,” Ser Rodrik announced. Lyanna looked to the tree, a familiar and oft used landmark, a ways away. “You’ll start at the drop of this ribbon.” He put a hand on Allyria’s shoulder, who immediately raised the arm with the cloth high in the air. “Three, two, one…”

“Come now, Black Aly,” Lyanna whispered in her horse’s ear as she leaned forward in the saddle. “Let’s show him what Brandon taught me.”

They were off at the drop of Allyria’s hair ribbon, a black mare against a white, Lyanna against Arthur. It was the latter who took off fastest, leaving about a horse’s length between the two of them. Lyanna did not think about taking the lead yet-- instead she laughed against the wind as it whipped her hair out behind her like dark ropes. With each slap of Aly’s hooves against the ground, Lyanna felt herself come alive, like she was waking up from a long slumber. She had spent more than half her life on the back of a horse, taking instruction from Brandon until the day came that not even he could outpace her. She thought of the many times he pouted and grumbled over a fresh loss, of Ned hiding a smile behind his cloak and Benjen laughing and cheering for her. She thought of the household at Winterfell, who knew of her mastery and placed their bets on her each time.

As they rapidly moved closer and closer to their halfway point, all she focused on now was the wind on her face, the sound of her own breaths, and ripple of her horse’s powerful muscles between her knees. It was a rush she loved getting lost in, a world where it was just her and her horse and the ground rolling beneath her. When she was younger, when her father was alive, she told herself that this would be how she would get away if he promised to marry her to a man she didn’t want-- on the back of a horse, apprehension thrown to the wind, with an endless horizon always in front of her. She imagined it would be a huge world that would open itself to her, and it could all be seen and lived on the back of a horse. It was too late for that now, but she supposed she could always pretend.

With a flick of her reins and a press of her heels, Black Aly picked up speed. Lyanna leaned forward a little more, and raised herself up in the saddle, delighting at the familiar ache in her legs as she did. The mare began to retake lost ground, pulling up closer and closer to Arthur’s stallion until she overtook him. Lyanna laughed as she passed him, almost lightheaded with glee. The tree that stood as their halfway point was straight ahead to her left-- and in an instant, it was passed, and only then did Lyanna draw back on her reins and lower herself back into the saddle. She slowed to make her turn, then urged Aly back to her sprint. Her heart thumped wildly against her chest-- she felt alive, awake, more than she had in many moons.

She could hear Arthur’s horse behind her, even through the thumping of her heart in her ears. He would try to push his horse, try to gain ground, but Lyanna was faster, and Aly was eager to please. The ride back to the starting point passed quickly, too soon for Lyanna’s tastes. But she passed through the gate, then slowed to a stop. Cheers and applause cut through the noise in her head; she had been victorious, as she knew she would be, as all of Winterfell knew she would be. Despite herself, Lyanna soaked up the praises, and found herself smiling as she looked to at her husband, who pulled in atop his horse appearing gracious enough in defeat. He put his hands up in surrender. Lyanna could not help herself; she took a victory lap around Arthur.

“You’re a fine rider,” he said to her as she took her second lap.

“I would say I’m more than fine,” Lyanna returned quickly, perhaps haughtily, and slowed to a stop.

“An excellent rider, then,” Arthur conceded with a soft smile.

“That was amazing, Lady Lyanna!” A girl’s voice cried from beside her. Lyanna looked down to where Allyria had run up to Aly’s side, her eyes wide with awe. “You rode so fast, you were like the wind!”

Lyanna laughed at the compliment, then hopped down from her saddle to meet the girl at her level. “I could teach you how to ride like that, if you’d like,” Lyanna said, as mirthful as could be. The emotion was foreign enough to make her feel entirely out of her mind.

Allyria gave a little gasp and clasped her hands together. “I would like that very much,” the girl confessed politely.

“It’s a promise, then.” She grinned down at the girl, and was grinning still when she looked up to see Ali still at his sister’s side, now with wide eyes. He approached slowly, but said nothing to her. Instead he took to picking out the remaining flowers from Aly’s mane, and patting her gently on the back.

She felt someone brush up behind her, and turned to see Arthur, still sporting his conceding smile. “I think you made Ali very happy,” he murmured, his steely voice somehow cutting through the noise. Lyanna looked back at the man in question to see him making the beginnings of a crown of flowers with assistance from his youngest sister.

“Then it was not a complete waste of time,” Lyanna returned, still beaming. “I’ll need some of your time tonight, ser.”

His purple eyes widened in recognition. “I’ll lend it gladly, my lady,” he said, voice low.

Lyanna looked away from him before she allowed her mind to travel any further down that train of thought. She instead, unfortunately, found herself in the presence of her steward, who must have pushed through the crowd when she wasn’t paying attention.

“You had matters to discuss with me, your grace?” He asked, seemingly oblivious to the merriment around him.

Lyanna could not help but sigh. “The fun was nice while it lasted,” she said aloud, though she probably should have kept it to yourself. “Yes, Lord Poole, I do have some matters to discuss with you.”

His dark eyes drifted to Arthur beside her. “Will his lordship be joining us?”

Lyanna shrugged. “It is his choice. I cannot bar the door, can I?” She began a brisk pace back to the inside of the castle, leaving Lord Poole to follow her.

“I’ll join, my lord,” she heard Arthur say. She looked back, but not at him. She only wanted to catch one more glimpse of the scene she was leaving, where Ali was setting a laurel of flowers atop Black Aly’s proud head and Ser Rodrik appeared to be explaining the parts of a saddle to a bouncing Allyria. 

If she could, Lyanna would have froze this moment forever, immortalized it in stone the way she did her brothers. She did not want to forget what it felt like to be this happy, not again. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reconciliation is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Lyanna woke up thinking only of Arthur Dayne’s terrible silence.

She wrapped the furs tight around her and tried to think back to where everything went wrong, to where the coldness settled in. It must have started right after the horse race, when the two of them and Beron Poole had entered her solar. Arthur had sat down in a chair across from her as she explained to Beron what she wanted to do-- she hadn’t paid enough attention to him then to read him, but she thinks it all began there.

“I have done very little to see to my people after the battle,” Lyanna explained to her steward. “They write me, but I fear they hold back because… well, because I’m young and a woman. I think it would be best to see them myself, as my father had done.” She had glanced at Arthur then, to see his reaction. He sat in that silence, hands steepled in front of his mouth, and watched them.

“It is worth remembering that your father took no such journeys until his first son was born, and his second on the way,” Beron pointed out. “As of now, you run the risk of illness or worse on the road. The air has been getting colder, your grace.”

“And winter is coming,” Lyanna completed dejectedly. Her shoulders slumped, spirit deflated at the reminder of her childlessness. “I cannot sit here and do nothing,” she protested weakly, her voice taking on a whine she disliked.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” Beron said, now reminding her of her father’s words. The words were older than the day that her father first spoke them to her, and they rang in her head like a bell. She had been the Stark in Winterfell ever since her brothers rode out to their doom, had been that Stark that saw so little, and she tired of the burden. But how would it look, for the Lady of Winterfell to sit wordlessly in her heated castle as the lords who fought and died with her brother were left alone to pick up the pieces? It made her look weak, small, thoughtless. Yet who could she send when she had no kin? “It is better for you to remain where you are, and conduct justice and carry out your duties within the walls of Winterfell,” Beron added gently, sensing her somber shift in mood.

“I  _ did _ tell Maester Luwin I would hold hearings soon…” she recalled with a sigh. She remembered such hearings when she was a girl on her father’s lap-- an endless queue of people came to petition all sorts of matters, most of them petty and mundane. There were men who came to accuse their wives of adultery, disputes over money and land, plenty of people who came only to beg, and some who offered their services at Winterfell. Lyanna avoided the hearings as much as she could-- and even Brandon joined her sometimes, leaving poor Ned to sit in the throne and hear them all out.

“Then you musn’t forget the matter of taxes…” Beron chimed in, thus extending the meeting further. As they spoke and bickered and mulled, Arthur had remained ever silent. When Beron took his leave, Arthur had been right behind him, without even a word of goodbye. Then, later that night, when he came to her...

Lyanna turned over in her bed to shout a groan of frustration into her pillows. The memory of the night before was still close enough at hand to make her want to bury herself in her furs and never crawl out again.

Arthur was normally quiet in bed, save for the noises of pleasure and effort he could not help, but his eyes were always emotive, speaking volumes. Yet not even that much had been expended-- her husband had been stone faced and dark eyed beneath her as she rode him, with the only signs of his engagement being the hands on her hips that helped her keep pace. Had his pleasure not been evident by the fact that he had finished inside her, she might have considered him entirely displeased. He had half scowled when he slipped out of her bed, dressed quickly, then mumbled a good night before he slipped away, leaving Lyanna feeling cold and utterly confused.

It was that coupling that had upset her most, for she found herself  _ wanting _ to please him, then angry at herself for wanting that, then angrier still that he had expended so little effort with so little emotion. She wondered what could have brought on such a change, and could only think back on their horse race. Did she wound his pride by beating him? Did he consider himself humiliated? He had seemed amiable enough directly after, and from her experience, men with bruised pride often retaliated through trying bruise another’s pride more. He had not been unkind with her, he did not try to wound her in any way, and he had let her take control in bed, but he was too quiet, and that what had baffled her the most.

Lyanna hated herself for waking and having her first thoughts be of the silence that had lasted half a day.  _ Perhaps he was simply tired, _ she tried to tell herself as she finally found the mental fortitude to get out of bed.  _ Or perhaps I really did an awful job in bed last night.  _ That had been, after all, only their sixth time coupling, and the infrequency did not make for much practice-- a matter she knew was entirely her fault, but was far too stubborn to change. Though it did make her blush to think that she had been married to a man for half a year and knew him so little in what might have been the easiest way to know a man. While the language of their union still remained agonizing and foreign, yet was her reality at all times of the day, the language of coupling had come to her as naturally as her mother tongue, and was sorely underused.

Nevertheless, she could never bring up matters of the bedroom to him without dying of shame, particularly not when her concern was that  _ she _ had underperformed. If he had truly been so disappointed to the point of muteness, then she would rather not hear it at all.

Another niggling part of her said,  _ perhaps he had simply grown bored of you _ . This thought, however, she quickly discarded before she spent another moment considering it. Stupid husbands, old husbands, mute husbands— she would rather have all that over a bored husband.

She dressed quickly, choosing the first frock that came between her hands: a simple gown of grey over a white kirtle, something easily slipped on without any ties that required assistance. She rolled on her white stockings just as quickly, and her shoes as well, then brushed her hair with a few strokes as she hurried out the door. Her bedroom felt like cursed ground, too easy to wallow in and remember things she did not want to remember.

She went down to the great hall to get something to eat before starting her work. Upon entering, she was met with its characteristic noise and bustle, as well as aromas that made her stomach growl. In there, she found some of her household already dining or finishing up. Lyanna, looking more like a kitchen drab than a lady, passed through largely unnoticed until she took her place at the empty high table. Plates of food almost immediately began to appear before her, and Lyanna just as quickly began to eat.

She looked around her hall, telling herself that she was looking for no one in particular, but stop to let her gaze settle on a trio sitting at a lower table. Allyria was discussing something animatedly with Arthur and Ali, her dark curls pinned up atop her head. Ali paid more attention to his food than his sister, and Arthur was smiling down at her with his head in his hand. His attention was only broken by a serving girl at his shoulder, a fair-haired and buxom woman, who offered him a plate of bacon. He appeared to decline with an open smile and kind eyes, and the woman grinned as she walked away.

Lyanna swallowed hard.  _ So she gets your smiles and warmth and I get a cold bedfellow? _ She thought bitterly. Her appetite now lost, she rose from her seat and made her way across the hall, and towards the doors. She was fuming, though she tried not to be, and her hands were balled up into tight fists.  _ You would think I killed his siblings, not wounded his pride in a bloody horse-- _

She quickly turned on her heel before she ran headfirst into Ashara Dayne. The woman stopped moving after her, her reflexes slower.

“Oh!” Ashara said in surprise. “Apologies, my lady.”

Lyanna blinked at her. The woman was dressed in fine blue gown, her shoulders were covered with a fur lined cloak, and her black hair was plaited down into a long, shiny braid. Pink color settled high in her cheeks. She looked lovely, and unassuming, thus Lyanna grabbed her hand.

“Come with me,” she said curtly as she pulled her out of the hall. The woman made no noise of protest as Lyanna took her across the yard and to the inside of the great keep, then all the way up to her solar. Lyanna closed the door behind them, and remained leaning on it. Ashara simply stood in front of with in muted shock, her purple eyes wide and a little fearful.

Lyanna suddenly found herself feeling terribly foolish.  _ What did I bring her for? _ She asked herself.  _ To ask her about her brother? I don’t care about her brother. _

“Can I help you, my lady?” Ashara asked softly as she wrung her gloved hands.

“I…” Lyanna trailed off. No, she could not ask her about Arthur. The very thought embarrassed her. “How… are you finding the North?” Lyanna chewed her lip, hoping to the gods that she sounded more casual than she felt.

The lady unwrung her hands. “Oh, well, it’s… cold,” Ashara confessed with a small, likely anxious smile. “But I think I will grow used to it in time. Allyria and Ali have taken to it even quicker than I imagined.”

Lyanna nodded. “That’s good to hear,” she said, only trying to keep her head above water in this unexpected conversation.

“Though I must confess that I miss Dragonstone at times,” she continued. “We are all quite fond of the sea.”

“Do you want to return?” Her politeness was slowly giving way to genuine curiosity.

“It is quite empty now without Arthur and our half-siblings. We enjoy company more than we enjoy the sea.” Ashara’s smile was easier now.

“What of the capital, then?”

“Still a possibility,” Ashara answered. “Though now it grows ever bigger, and from what they tell me, they hardly even see it. There are loose ends all over the realm that they work to tie.”

“They? Your half-siblings?” She tried not to say the word without venom.

Ashara nodded. “I think I am gladder here, my lady.”

“You are welcome to stay for as long as you like,” Lyanna said, her sentiment genuine. They were polite guests who gave her no trouble and meant no harm.

“Thank you, my lady.” Ashara lowered herself into a dignified curtsey.

“You needn’t call me ‘my lady’,” Lyanna insisted firmly. “You do not need to bow to me either. My name will suffice.”

Ashara’s smile was as warm as her eyes were bright. “Very well, Lyanna,” she breathed, her hands now clasped in silent excitement. “Might I ask you something, Lyanna?”

“You may,” Lyanna answered.

“Are you well? You have color in your cheeks--”

A knock came at the door at her back, rescuing her from the conversation. “Maester Luwin, your grace,” the man announced himself from the other side of the door. Lyanna pulled her gaze away from the radiant Ashara and stood upright to open the door. Maester Luwin entered, his kindly face smiling and his hands hidden in his great brown sleeves.

“Good morning, your grace,” the Maester said to Lyanna. He looked to Ashara. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Maester,” Ashara returned. “Shall I leave you, Lyanna?”

“No, it’s alright,” Lyanna said hastily. Perhaps she would muster the courage to ask her intended question soon. “What might I do for you, Maester?”

“I have brought you the posset you asked for,” he said in a quiet voice, meant for only her to hear. He pulled a partly transparent white pouch from his sleeve, and placed it in her hand. “Steep this in hot water, and drink it before your coupling.”

“Oh,” Lyanna murmured. She seemed to recall asking the maester for it on this specific day-- but in her haste, she had asked Arthur to bed the night before. “Thank you, maester.”

“If the taste is too bitter, you may add mint,” he continued in the same grandfatherly tone that kept her from growing too embarrassed. 

“Yes,” Lyanna sighed. “I will do that.”

Another knock came at the door. No one announced themselves this time. Lyanna paused, looked between the perplexed Ashara and the sage Maester, and moved to open the door.

Arthur appeared to her, his face still blank and unemotive. His gaze fell hard on her, then softer when it found his sister and the maester. “Was there a meeting that I’m interrupting?” He asked, but not to her. Lyanna frowned, and turned away from the door to sit behind her desk, as if putting distance between them might make her feel less irate.

“No meeting, brother. Just a brief talk,” Ashara answered, her voice as warm as honey.

“Maester?”

“I was merely delivering something to her grace, my lord,” the Maester responded.

“I see. Then, might I have a moment alone with my wife?”

This was enough to pull Lyanna’s attention back to him. He was still stony faced, but she sensed a lick of irritation in his steely tone. As the room emptied out, Lyanna eyed the bag of herbs the maester had given her warily. She wondered if its effectiveness would be the same if used the night after.

_ It would not hurt to try. _ She took a sniff of it, and was met with strong spicy smell.  _ They’re fresh, and it would be a shame to let them go to waste. _

The room was empty by the time that Lyanna noticed a kettle on her desk. It was the mint tea that Lyra brought up every morning, and when she touched it, she found it still warm. Lyanna dropped the bag of herbs in a cup, poured the water into it. Steam rose from the cup, as well as the smell of mint and something spicy.

As the herbs steeped, the room fell even quieter. Her husband appeared to have taken to the task of simply staring at her, and Lyanna had no mind to entertain his vigil. She supposed he would speak soon enough-- and so he did.

“Why didn’t you discuss the matter of a progress with me before?” he asked, finally breaking his silence. His voice was hard, but not mean-- only very, very displeased.

Lyanna blinked, as confused by the question as she was by his sudden desire to speak again. She looked up from the steaming cup and into her husband’s dark face. “How good of you to find your tongue again. I feared you had swallowed it coming down from your horse,” she said, ignoring his question for now.

“I suppose you consider it a mystery as to why I’m upset?”

“Not at all,” Lyanna continued icily. “Many men have behaved the same after losing a horse race to me.”

“The horse race?” He asked, sounding incredulous. His expression was one of open shock. “You think I would be upset over losing a horse race?”

“I…” Lyanna found herself at a temporary loss for words. It was all the made sense to her; what else could there be? “You’re upset, then?” She knew he was-- that much was plainly evident --but she did not know what else to say. 

“Yes, I am upset,” he returned sharply. “I am the Lord of Winterfell, but more than that, I am your husband. Did you intend on inviting me to discuss the matter of a progress, or was I simply fortunate enough to be present when your steward answered your summons?” Arthur asked as he approached the desk, looming over her in her chair. Lyanna stood up to feel just a little less small.

“You are Rhaegar’s chosen Lord, not mine,” Lyanna reminded him as she raised her chin to meet his eye. She may not have been prepared for a quarrel, but nevertheless, she knew how to conduct herself in them. “And I do not understand why you have grown so upset all of a sudden. Did you think that I had not spoken to my steward alone before yesterday?”

“I know you conduct business with him, and while I mind being left out, I have chosen to let you manage matters at your own leisure, with the hope that you may one day invite me. But that was different; you discussed leaving Winterfell.”

“Why is that different? Did you want me to ask your permission?” She asked bitterly, preparing herself to go down that path with all sorts of barbed words.

“You do not need my permission,” he returned sharply, pulling the ground out from under her. “I should think I have the right to know that my wife wishes to leave Winterfell for an extended trip well before it enters discussion with your steward. Did you ever intend to tell me of your plans?”

“I--” she faltered, unsure yet again of what to say to that. The entire matter had only ever been an idea in her head, one she saw sense in sharing with her close advisor and steward. As for Arthur-- well, she would have told him  _ eventually _ … “I do not have to tell you everything,” she finally snapped back. She crossed her arms, feeling like a child beneath his disappointed gaze.

“No, you do not,” Arthur said, his voice now much lower and calmer, but his gaze still harsh and unyielding. He had put his hands flat on her desk and leaned forward, leaving very little room between them. “But I cloaked you under my protection and made a holy vow. It is my duty to be the first to know if my wife intends to leave the protection of her husband and home.”

“I would be well protected by my own guard,” Lyanna retorted, as quick as whip, and twice as unthinking. His muteness after her words told its own story. She soon realized that she understood his sentiment-- it was not his pride that was wounded, but his sense of duty towards her. It seemed that no matter how much she wanted to forget he was her husband, he did not want to forget that she was his wife. Lyanna finally acquiesced under his disappointed gaze, and uncrossed her arms. “I  _ had _ hoped to make a progress and visit the ruling lords, to see how they fared after the battle,” she confessed softly. “But as you witnessed yesterday, it doesn’t matter at all. I cannot leave Winterfell.”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” he recalled immediately. She was taken aback to hear her father’s words on his tongue-- but he had the right of it. She could not leave Winterfell in the hands of her husband, or even Lord Poole or Maester Luwin. Winterfell belonged to House Stark, and she was all that was left of it. “Then I will go in your place,” he resolved firmly.

Lyanna shot him a sharp look. “Don’t be stupid,” she chided with a frown. To punctuate her dismissal, she took a swig of the maester’s tea, which had turned from clear white to dark amber. It was bitter; she wrinkled her nose at it.

He did not appear disturbed by the dismissal, or the name. “I will go,” he said simply.

“You go nowhere until I am with child,” she explained before she took another sip.

“Why not?”

“What if something should happen to you while you are away? A treacherous lord could poison you, or have you killed on the road.” Her blood ran cold just thinking of it; it would be the greatest folly she could commit right now. “Then what will happen to me?” 

“You will be widowed, as you have always wanted to be.” His tone is slightly accusatory; it only served to upset her further.

“Think with your head, Arthur,” she scoffed. “We are childless. Your half-brother wed you to me so that he could breed out the Starks, did he not?” A  generous swig brought the drink down to half empty.

Arthur had the decency to look sheepish. “That’s not what he said,” he mumbled in a small voice.

“That’s what he meant. Will your half-brother be content to hear that you perished by a northman’s hand, without even a dragonspawn to take up the mantle of Lord of Winterfell after you?”

“Do not call our child a dragonspawn,” he clipped, sounding more enraged in a small, quiet sentence than he had the entire conversation. 

“It doesn't matter what I call a child that does not exist. I simply cannot let you go when I am without an heir.” She sighed, suddenly exhausted.

“Yet you wished to go alone and childless,” he reminded her. “Does the same risk not run for you?”

Lyanna frowned. If  _ she _ were to perish, then all of her misery would have been for naught. “It does,” she admitted quietly. “All the more reason that I cannot go.” She leaned back against the desk and drank the rest of the tea during their shared silence. Her husband had backed away, frustration apparent in how his jaw was set and his fists were closed. He cut quite a figure frowning in profile, purple eyes set to the ground. Still, he did not quarrel further.

It was noble, she supposed, that he took their vow of marriage so seriously. She did not consider leaving Winterfell as leaving her husband’s protection, for she did not really need her husband’s protection. There were men in Winterfell that she trusted more than him, men bound to her because of her name and blood. Regardless, Arthur grew upset-- perhaps not at her lack of trust, but her lack of consideration for the vow between them. It was hard for her to think back on it-- her brothers had been freshly interred and she had been holding back tears when her husband exchanged her maiden’s cloak for his own. It did not feel like a protection then; it felt like doom.

Now here they were, six moons’ turns later, and he had never once quarreled or wounded or shamed her. Even what had passed between them now was hardly a quarrel by her standards, and it was one fought over something that, in hindsight, Lyanna ought to have shared with him, if only out of courtesy. He deserved that much for an unwavering obedience that she did not mirror.

“Arthur--” she began, before finding herself feeling terribly hot beneath her collar. She set the empty cup down and tugged at the neck of her dress. 

Her husband looked to her quizzically, fists unfurled. Lyanna straightened, but found difficulty in gathering herself. The heat was becoming oppressive.

“I will send missives out today requesting taxes,” Lyanna said aloud, to distract herself from the insufferable heat her body gave off. “The roads are not so bad that they cannot send their carts to Winterfell. Though I understand that part of these taxes shall go to your king.” She practically spat out that title; even in her discomfort, she could not forget to curse Rhaegar Targaryen.

“As is his right,” Arthur returned in a mumble. He scratched his jaw and avoided her eyes. “He gave us a generous rate.”

“For certain,” Lyanna said, every letter venomous. “I should be thanking my gods every night for Rhaegar’s generosity.”

“That was not my meaning,” Arthur remarked quietly.

Lyanna half-groaned as she pulled at her skirts, desperate to pull them off. She could felt the warm, prickly heat in every inch of her, and no place more keen than between her legs. She eyed the empty cup suspiciously-- the maester would not poison her, but he did not warn her of what she might feel. Though he did say  _ before _ each coupling…

Lyanna chewed her lip in thought.  _ It would be madness, _ she told herself.  _ Anyone could walk in and catch us. _ Somehow, that only added to the thrill.  _ And Arthur would not consent, surely… _

“Arthur,” she said softly. He appeared not to hear her, as he already moved toward the door. “Arthur, wait,” she said again, in a louder voice this time.

He stopped and turned back to her, like a dog called to heel.

“Come closer,” she said. He obeyed with a puzzled expression on his face. His approach only served to light another fire in her blood, as she was reminded of the night before. She silently cursed, not for the first time, that no one thought to share the truth of how strong female desire could be. If women were supposed to be demure, then why did the gods make her feel this?

_ It’s the bloody posset, _ she told herself right before she rose on her toes to kiss him.

If her husband was alarmed, he gave no sign of it. He kissed her back, and with an intensity that knocked her back into her desk.

“Quickly,” she whispered in between kisses. She hopped up onto her desk, uncaring of the inkwell and kettle and papers that were situated only a few inches away.

“Quickly?” Arthur asked, and he paused long enough to look at her quizzically.

Lyanna lifted her skirts. Arthur’s eyes widened.

“Lyanna,” her husband began in protest, “anyone could come in--”

“Which is why I said  _ quickly _ ,” she hissed out. She guided his hand to in between her legs, and nearly screamed aloud at the brush of his fingertips through her smallclothes.

“Are you certain?” He asked, clearly teetering between shock and his own desire.

“I am,” she managed to gasp out. “It must be now.”

Her husband deserved credit for his steadfast obedience. He stripped her of her smallclothes and even took the time to touch her there, as if to measure her eagerness. She could not take it; at just a touch she felt the heat that had blossomed in her body roll off in waves. A soft groan escaped past her lips despite her best effort to stay quiet.

“Enough,” she rasped, fearful of what other louder noises she might make if he continued. He obeyed immediately, and moved that hand to the front of his trousers. She swatted it away and reached for the laces herself. Unlacing him and unsheathing him took a matter of moments, and she quickly took him in hand to stroke him to attention. To hear his breath hitch in his throat as she worked was more pleasing than Lyanna would ever admit to. In his eyes now was the passion absent from the night before; she was trapped beneath his dark and dangerous look, driven to want to touch him until he unraveled between her hands.

Yet he was more committed to the task at hand than she, and he gently moved her hand to the desk beneath her, his fingers still caught in hers. With his other hand on her hip, he thrust himself inside her in a motion that made the whole desk shake. She briefly thought of the inkwell, and the doubtless important papers underneath her, but not for long. She was caught up in his desirous gaze, all but whining at the intensity of it. Her hand snaked up the back of his neck, her thumb at his ear and her fingers twisted in his hair, holding his face to hers. Every thrust made the desk rattle more and more, faster and faster. Her body responded all too eagerly, her legs locked around him and crossed at the ankle. She struggled to bite back her moans until Arthur covered her mouth with his to swallow them.

He spent himself inside her with a grunt and a thrust that knocked the desk back an inch. Lyanna could not muffle her noise of surprise, at both the intensity of the finish and how quickly it was before it was all over. Yet, she could not call herself disappointed. She was panting, her legs trembling around his hips, and there was an ache between her thighs unlike anything she’d felt before.

Arthur did not unsheathe himself immediately after. Instead he remained where he was, soft inside her, and stared at her with an indiscernible expression. She felt the rough pad of his thumb coast over her index finger where their hands were still tangled on the desk. A wellspring of some strong emotion-- one she could not place a name to --swelled up inside her. It should have been shame, but it was not. Lyanna had accepted herself for a slattern long ago. It was something softer, warmer.

The scrape of his blunt nails against her bare thigh drew her back to reality. Lyanna slowly unlocked her legs from around him, and Arthur in turn removed himself from her. She looked down at her bunched up skirts while he righted himself in his trousers, feeling oddly envious of him. How simple it was for him to appear normal again after a coupling-- meanwhile, Lyanna’s stockings were ready to fall off her feet, a shoe was missing, her skirts were a crumpled mess, her smallclothes had been abandoned somewhere, and Arthur’s seed trickled slowly down her thigh.

Then, unexpectedly, Arthur appeared kneeling at her feet and placed the missing shoe upon her foot. He continued like a squire dressing his knight, rolling up her stockings for her and righting her skirts. He rose with her smallclothes in hand. Lyanna took them from him, feeling too dumbstruck to even mutter a thank you. Her head was still spinning-- from the posset, from fucking, and from Arthur.

He moved in as if to kiss her again, but she stalled him with her fingers to his lips. She had already broken her own rule; there was no need to do more damage.

“You may go,” she found herself saying. To her surprised, Arthur appeared disappointed. When he pulled away from her and moved to leave, Lyanna realized her mistake.

“I mean on the progress,” she added quickly. “You may go.”

He stopped mid-step to look back at her. “You said--”

“I am certain,” she said simply. She could not describe it, this strange feeling that told her that her greatest desire had come true. “You will go on the progress in my name.”

“You cannot be certain,” he countered despite her offering. He moved back to her, nearly to where he had been between her legs, but stopped at her knees.

“You will need time to prepare,” she continued, undaunted. Her head still felt stuck in the clouds, despite the refreshing coolness of her skin. “I will be certain by the time you’re ready.”

“It is your decision,” he deferred in a steely voice. He extended a hand out to her. She took it, and slid off the desk. “Where do I start?”

“We start with this,” she said, raising the crumpled smallclothes still in her hand. “And with this,” she added, looking back at the spilled ink on her desk and the crumpled and torn papers. She could not even find the conviction to be irritated at the sight; it had been worth it. “Then we summon Lord Poole again.”

Without another word, Arthur righted the tipped inkwell and began to tidy up the papers.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of decisions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, so sorry for the wait. It's been hard finding the time/energy to write. I hope it's up to par, and thanks as always for reading!

The meeting came to include more than the two of them and Beron Poole-- apparently it required a much larger scope.

Beron brought along his son, Vayon, a quiet, unassuming young man who would have been of an age with Ned. He considered this meeting a particularly important meeting, and one his son could learn from for when the time came that he took up his father’s mantle. Then, Maester Luwin was invited for his wisdom, and he demonstrated said wisdom by suggesting that Ser Rodrik and Jory Cassel be included as well. 

Once the men had gathered, discussions-- and disagreements --began forthright.

“You cannot take a single southron with you,” Lyanna insisted to Arthur, who looked as if he might balk if he were one for balking. 

“They are my men, and I trust them above all for protection,” he had insisted in turn. Though normally placid, Arthur’s hackles were clearly up, with so many people firmly on the opposite side of him.

“It’s enough that I send a foreigner who slew their liege lord-- I will not send you surrounded by men who may have killed their husbands and sons as well.”

“If you wish to present yourself as the Lord of Winterfell, then bring only men of Winterfell,” Maester Luwin added in his grandfatherly tone. “The other men will not be well received.”

The silence that followed, in addition to the set of Arthur’s jaw, indicated to Lyanna that he had come to a begrudging acceptance of this explanation.

“I believe Jory Cassel should along with you, as well as the household guard,” Luwin continued. Lyanna looked to the young captain, who raised his brows in surprise. “They are all northmen, and they will do well in terms of protection.”

“Half the guard is made up of new recruits,” Arthur pointed out swiftly, back into a fighting formation.

“They are new to the guard, not to arms,” Rodrik interjected, the grizzled man plainly taking the words as an insult to his own ability to train. “The new men fought on that field of fire and survived.”

Regardless, Arthur still appeared doubtful.

“I doubt they will need to brandish their swords,” Lyanna said in an effort to put Arthur at ease and Rodrik back in better spirits. “You will travel under my banner, and as a guest to these lords and ladies. Even if they do not accept you as Lord of Winterfell, you are protected by guest right. An attempt on your life would be treason, whose only punishment is death. Put your trust in my captain, and in my people.”

Though he still frowned, Arthur nodded his agreement. “How will this be carried out, then?” He asked, and they looked down at the map that had been furled on the desk they stood around.

Beron pointed a finger to Last Hearth. “I suggest you go north before you go south,” he began to explain. “The Last Hearth is Lord Jon Umber’s castle; he was injured in the battle, but has since recovered. The Umbers are an old, and important house, my lord.”

“House Umber,” Lyanna heard Arthur repeat under his breath. 

“Along the way are the northern mountains; there are clans in those mountains, men we call lords but are chieftains, in truth,” Beron continued. “They should not be ignored. They have hosted past Kings of Winter many times in their hall.”

“Father once told me that they always prepared great feasts for his visits,” Lyanna recalled, smiling wistfully at the memory. Her father’s progresses had always been great successes. It had left behind something of a legacy-- but unfortunately one she could not fulfill herself. She wondered what her father would think to see her send Arthur Dayne in her stead. She quickly brushed the thought aside.

“Yes, they hold great respect for House Stark,” Beron included with a nod. “I believe you should cut through the mountains and visit the clans before Last Hearth. Then travel east to Karhold, House Karstark’s seat, and continue south to the Dreadfort, where Lord Bolton--”

“My lord,” Arthur interjected loudly before pausing. He stood up straight up and crossed his arms, then looked sidelong at Lyanna. “I do not think I will remember this all.”

“Well, of course not,” Lyanna returned, puzzled. “You may take a map with you.”

“I mean the names, the lords, the heraldry,” Arthur explained. He appeared a little embarrassed, with the barest hint of red in his face. “I have only heard of them, but I did not study them.”

A brief silence falls upon the gathered. Lyanna had never considered this, for despite his foreignness, she had assumed he received the same education as herself, and knew every lord and sigil and castle and house words, as well as histories that had bored her to tears as a child.  _ But then, I cannot name southron houses beyond the kings, _ she realized. She took some pity upon him, but Maester Luwin was quicker in finding a solution.

“I will teach you, my lord,” the Maester said. “We will not let you travel blindly.”

“Thank you, Maester.”

And on and on they went, discussing details and generalities, customs and expectations. Lyanna wondered how the men were content with standing for as long as they did, but she found that when she pulled herself up onto the desk to take a seat (the desk which she had been fucked on not too long ago, though she tried to forget), the men around her gradually began to pull up chairs and sit, save for Arthur and Jory, who remained on their feet.

She had remained largely passive, interjecting only when Arthur needed further convincing of a matter or when an idea formed that she thought may be useful. Thus, it came as a surprise when Beron addressed her directly, and with a question she did not expect to answer there and then.

“Are you with child, your grace?” Beron’s face was still as stone, the question sounding grave, perhaps because it  _ was _ of grave importance. Lyanna knew she could deflect this if she wished, by chastising her steward for being too toward and personal, but she understood his concern, for it had been her very own.

Still, it was quite a shocking experience when it was five pairs of men’s eye fixed upon her, and awaiting her answer.

“Well…” She began, her mouth feeling quite dry. “No, but…” She was basing her confidence entirely off a feeling she had experienced hardly an hour ago, or perhaps an instinct, though one she could not aptly describe. She credited it not to Arthur’s vigor, nor to Maester Luwin’s posset, but to something far more nebulous and inexplicable. She would be certain in a short time, and if she were wrong, then she would have to come up with a different solution.

“A guard’s protection and guest right go a long way, but there is no accounting for unpredictability,” Beron continued sternly. “If something should happen to Lord Dayne before your line is continued, then King Rhaegar will be sure to take action.”

“It will not come to that,” Arthur spoke in place of her, his eyes hard. “I will tell my brother that I take this progress by my own choice, and at my own risk.” It had become abundantly clear to Lyanna in a short time that Rhaegar was hard Arthur’s tender soft spot; and if the men gathered did not know that before today, they would learn it now.

“That is all well and good my lord, but words will not protect her grace in the event of your death.”

“He has no cause to punish her for another’s actions.”

“But will he, my lord?” Jory spoke up. His lips were curled into a frown, and his eyes were narrowed dangerously. Lyanna looked between the men, unsure if she should feel shock or concern.

“I will get his word that no harm will come to her,” Arthur said with cold confidence, his jaw set. “I made my decision with this progress. None can say I was forced or tricked into it.”

“Why should we trust his word?” Jory asked boldly.

“Because  _ I _ trust it.”

“What should that mean to me, my lord?”

Lyanna sensed it was her time to intervene. “If the lords and ladies of the North care for me or my name, then they know better than to harm Arthur Dayne,” she said. “It matters not whether I am with child or without. They know it will be my head on the block after theirs. They know it will mean more war and the return of dragons. We must put trust in our people that they possess common sense.” She looked to Jory, who still appeared concerned. Lyanna hardened her heart against him for a few moments, to try and be the lady she must be. “You are the captain of my household guard. You know your duty; perform it, and do not let the lords forget that you are there to protect him.”

“I will try,” Jory returned in a small voice.

“Do not forget the laws of guest right,” Beron spoke up again, looking to Arthur sternly. “For every hall you enter, eat the food that is offered. If they offer none, then ask for it. Once you have eaten from their bread and salt, they will do you no harm.”

“No one wants to anger the gods, not when winter is so soon,” Lyanna further explained upon noting that the wariness in Arthur’s face did not fade. It was threatening to become a constant fixture. “To break guest right would be the worst thing any northman could do.” She wondered if she should refer Arthur to Old Nan, and have her tell the story of the Rat King to him. It had convinced her of the importance of guest right rather quickly as a child; it may have a similar effect on an adult as well.

“Bread and salt,” Arthur mumbled, finally letting his shoulders slump in a hard fought defeat. “Very well.”

The meeting closed with a tentative decision made on the date of departure; the men agreed they would need no more than two moons’ turns to prepare, but hope to take to the road in less than that. In that time, Arthur would study the North with Maester Luwin, Jory and Rodrik would continue to train the guard, and Lyanna and Beron would draft letters to alert each castle of his arrival, and the purpose of it.

Arthur would only be there to help, to go in her place and see firsthand what her sworn houses lacked and what they required from House Stark. Though it would be difficult to overcome understandable wariness, Arthur Dayne was not an aggressor, nor was his place dishonorably won. He slew Brandon in combat-- no tricks, no surprises, no malice. It was sword against sword, and Arthur’s prevailed. Even the northmen could accept such an outcome, but acceptance would not remove hard feelings. The North remembered, after all. They would never forget the loss. Nor would Lyanna ever forget; only she was married to the man, and had less of a choice in acceptance and greater grief than anyone else. If she could live with him everyday without killing him, then no other man or woman had a right to do so.

* * *

 

 

Her role in preparation would prove minor-- it took only a few days to pen the letters needed. The contents of each one were more or less the same, but for each time she wrote  _ “I send Lord Arthur Dayne in my stead to serve your needs” _ , what she really hoped everyone would read was  _ “kill him, and you may as well put the blade to my throat next” _ . She might have written those exact words had Beron not insisted on a more diplomatic approach.

She decided to take those letters to the rookery herself. As she climbed up the spiral stairs, the weight of carefully chosen words in her hands, she began to wonder if this was the right choice at all.  _ Maege lost her daughter and her nephew, _ she recalled.  _ Lord Karstark lost his sons. The Greatjon lost a brother. Lady Dustin lost her husband.  _ Loss after loss after loss introduced themselves in her mind. If six moon’s turns had not been enough to diminish her grief, then what did the rest of them feel? Did they mourn still? Were they angry? Vengeful? What would they do when a southron with brown skin and purple eyes walked into their hall, calling himself the Lord of Winterfell, carrying the very sword that may have slayed their kin on his back?

She tried to put her faith in guest right.  _ It would be unfathomable to kill a man who is your guest, _ she insisted to herself.  _ The gods hate those who break guest right as much as they hate kinslayers and traitors.  _ But what if they did not fear the gods, uncaring of how their own life may be cut short, with no kin to carry the curse after them? What if they cared not for her, for House Stark, for the North? And what of Rhaegar’s word, that Arthur had put such trust in-- could she trust it?

She recalled the king as he was sitting in her solar, calm and calculating and cold.  _ Tell me, what do you think would happen if I executed you? _ He had asked, knowing the answer already. He had not been prepared to rain fire and blood down upon the entirety of the North then; he had lost seven thousand men, but not a brother or a sister or even a half-brother. If Arthur perished now, for a progress she had suggested he take, what would become of her?

Perhaps Rhaegar could promise her no harm. Perhaps she would be full with child then, and perhaps even the wicked dragon king would not behead the woman who carried his half-brother’s heir. Perhaps he would wait, keeping her under lock and key until the day she gave birth. Perhaps he would take her child from her then, to be raised away from her, away from Winterfell. Then what use would he have for her? Did he have dungeons built in his castle yet? Or would he simply encase her in stone and make her part of the foundation?

Such things would be no harm done to her, not in body, at least. But to take her child from her would be a fate worse than death.

Lyanna stopped at the top of the stairs. The ravens in the rookery flew and cawed around her, their black feathers blotting out the sunlight that poured in from the ceiling. She looked down at the sealed letters in her hands.

_ Dark wings, dark words. _ Perhaps the northmen would think the same when the opened their letters and read about who they must invite into their home.  _ Perhaps it would be better to wait, _ she told herself.  _ If I am with child, then I will have an heir in less than a year. Then, as soon as I am able, I may go on the progress myself. _

She wondered when she would be able; would she abandon her child to wetnurses when it was only just a babe? No, that wouldn’t do. When the child has seen its first name day, would it be wise to leave then? Could the child understand such a separation? Could Lyanna bear it? Would winter wait that long? What would her people hate more-- her brevity, her failure to do her duty by them, or Arthur Dayne?

She didn’t know; she couldn’t say. Yet it was a decision only she could make, with no brother or father or mother to offer words of equal or greater weight.

Lyanna looked around to see if Maester Luwin had been quietly tending to the flocks as she stood and pondered, but he was not there. He was undoubtedly locked away with Arthur again, helping him to study the North the way Lyanna had once, though under a different Maester. She took tentative steps toward the Maester’s table, where he had laid out melting candles and his ledger of the ravens’ comings and goings. She set down the letters and idly thumbed through the pages. It was a few turns before a pair of words caught her eye:  _ King’s Landing. _

_ The training for the ravens to King’s Landing has begun, _ the Maester had written in tight, neat scrawl.  _ The journey averages 14 days.  _

_ What about a dragon, maester? _ She wondered.  _ How long would its journey be? _

If it all went wrong, it would be a dragon, not a raven that would carry news of her fate to her. Lyanna left the letters where they were, knowing they would be delivered when the Maester came up.

* * *

 

 

Her fears, and her resolve, were strengthened when she woke a few weeks later to falling snow.

She knew what it meant-- she would always know what it meant, and always had known. It was early morning, too early for most, when she made her way down to the stables and saddled Black Aly. She found Jory along the way, and bade him to follow her-- which he did, though he could not keep her pace as they rode out through the Hunter’s Gate and to the open field outside of the wolfswood. Their horses’ hooves left imprints in the freshly driven snow, interrupting its clean stillness. The wind had knocked off the hood of her cloak and snowflakes melted in her hair as she rode and rode.

Lyanna knew when to stop. When she did, she sat panting like her mare, eyes wide as she looked out onto the white horizon. The sound of Jory’s arrival on beating hooves soon broke the silence.

“Your grace,” Jory called out between short breaths. “Why are we--”

“Hush, Jory,” Lyanna said softly.

Snow was falling everywhere. Not heavy snow, no, but enough to cover all but the tallest grass. Lyanna stepped down from her horse, removed a glove, and felt the snow between her hands. Not heavy enough for snowballs-- not yet.

“Do you remember?” Lyanna asked quietly. She felt as if she were slipping out of her body, watching the two of them from high above. “Do you remember snow?”

Jory blinked, and came down from his horse as well. “Of course I do, princess.”

She dropped the snow in her hand, her fingers already numb when she slipped the glove back on. “The last time it snowed, it was only last year, Jory. We made snowballs and Benjen put a handful down your shirt-- remember?”

Jory nodded as his solemn face turned somber.

“Are we nearing the end of summer, then?” Lyanna asked from her place kneeling on the ground. “So soon?”

He remained quiet still, but his silence was confirmation enough.

“We must work quickly.” She rose, feeling colder on the inside than she did in the snow. “We’re not prepared for winter. The stores are not as they were, the lack of men has led to lack of work, the harvest has not even had time to come in…” She trailed off, unwilling to continue the bleak string of thought. The horizon appeared to her a blinding white-- uncaring, harsh, cold. Winter was coming, and it had no care for her troubles. “You have not started the progress. What if it’s too late?”

Jory came up beside her and rested a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “Summer snows come and go,” he offered kindly, with a tight smile that was wholly for her benefit. “Tomorrow the snow may melt and all will be green again.”

Lyanna pulled her gaze from the horizon to look at the young captain, his familiar dark eyes a comfort amidst all this chill. She managed a small smile for his sake, and squeezed his hand.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly. _ Or perhaps there is everything to fear,  _ she added just to herself.

They returned to Winterfell at a slower pace, giving time for the sun to finish it’s ascent and bathe the white ground in light. It was almost blinding, certainly worrying, but all who moved throughout the courtyard seemed unbothered by it, as if today’s layer of snow was no different than yesterday’s visible dirt and green. Her people were used to snow, to be sure, but their nonchalance undoubtedly came from something else-- a security that Lyanna did not share. They trusted House Stark to see them through the worst of snows, as they had for centuries. They did not share the burden of worry that House Stark did-- that  _ Lyanna _ did, being the lone and singular Stark. It was up to her and her alone to see them all through, and it terrified her.

She must have mulled the miserable thought over for an extended period of time, for kind Jory suddenly appeared at her side and extended his arms to help her down from her horse. Lyanna let him perform this small favor for her, if only to set his own heart at ease. His hands clasped her waist in a gentlemanly fashion and swung her down from the saddle and onto her feet as if she were light as air.

“Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to sound appreciative. Jory smiled and nodded before leaving her side.  

Lyanna remained where she were to look around for more familiar faces, perhaps even a source of comfort. Beron Poole was nowhere to be seen, no doubt still seeing to the finer details of the progress. Maester Luwin was surely tucked away with Arthur in his tower, working steadfastly as he always did. She found herself even searching for Allyria and Ali, and their open, childish faces.

_ If the snows remain mild, then the progress must go forward,  _ Lyanna resolved.  _ It must be soon, before it’s too late. _

Lyanna sighed turned her face away to her mare, whose soft breaths came out in white puffs. “Cold, isn’t it?” She asked the horse as she stroked down her nose. “We’ll get you a blanket to keep you warm.” She handed Black Aly off to a stablehand with the command to do just that. 

Across the yard, the loud laughs of men could be heard. Lyanna’s gaze followed the noise to find Arthur’s band of southern men from where they stood across the courtyard, drinking out of skins and laughing raucously, the sound clashing unpleasantly with the sound of work and bustle around them. Their foreignness was marked by the extra furs they wore to stay warm and their manner of speech, though Lyanna never took the time to address any of them. When one man boldly leaned out to grab the rear of a passing serving girl, who squealed and scurried away at the unwanted touch, the rest laughed again. Lyanna narrowed her eyes. Feeling an all too familiar heat creep up her neck, she marched toward the all too merry band.

“What would your commander say to see you loitering about while there’s work to be done?” Lyanna called out to them, openly furious. They seemed to be surprised to be spoken to by her, and froze in their spots. “Or do you need your commander to give you orders before you think to do something useful? Winterfell may not be your battle camps, but that does not make it a place to be lazy and slovenly either.”

One of them, the one who must have been the boldest of the lot, spoke up, “What would you have us do, my lady?”

“Winter is coming. There is no end of things to do,” Lyanna returned sharply. “While you are not here on my invitation nor at my blessing, you will put yourself to good use while you remain, particularly when your commander is away. And while you are here, I would remind you that my serving girls are not your toys.” Her hand tightened around the hilt of her sword at her hip as she spoke. “You do not touch them if they do not will it-- you would do well not to look at them at all. If I see you putting a hand on one of my girls again I’ll have you spend a night in the kennels. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my lady,” the brave one answered. Lyanna remained glaring at them until they reluctantly scattered, hopefully to go put themselves to good use. Then soon it was only Lyanna who remained loitering and useless. By now she was too miserable to stand alone in the courtyard, and too afraid of being questioned by someone about the snow, and thus Lyanna hurried indoors.

Though she knew he was busy, Lyanna entered the Maester’s turret to see if perhaps the Maester had a message for her-- a white raven, to be precise. The door to his solar was ajar, and Lyanna silently poked her head in to see what was happening.

Arthur sat across from Maester Luwin, in between them the books and papers he’d taken to studying diligently. Today he was joined by Allyria and Ali, who sat on either side of him with their faces screwed up in concentration, proving that the expression was a family trait. 

Maester Luwin caught sight of her, then gave her a subtle nod and a small smile. If he had received something important, he would surely waste no time in telling her. That he remained where he was, continuing on with his lesson, proved that there was nothing for her to hear.

Nevertheless, Lyanna felt useless and restless. She had done all she could to prepare for winter and for the upcoming progress, had already sent out word about the audiences she would be seeing soon. All that remained was to wait-- wait for the harvest, wait for the latest hunting party to return, wait for letters that may come. The best she could do now was pore over ledgers and numbers, needlessly worrying herself.

It occurred to her that she had not prayed in some time. Her moon’s blood was due any day now, and while she had hoped that it would not come, she had yet to pray about it. Getting caught up in other duties often meant she neglected her worship, a dangerous boundary that she feared toeing. As had been proven to her, the gods were not kind. She knew better than to tempt them or to ignore them-- yet she was angry at them still. They had torn her whole family away from her, first one-by-one, then all at once. They left her with no mother, no father, no brothers, not even grandparents or aunts or uncles or cousins; they had left her utterly and totally alone, and gave her no blessings in return.

Just thinking such thoughts wedged Old Nan’s voice in her head. _ We pray to the gods in good times and bad, in the mildest of winters and the cruelest. Forget them, and they will forget you.  _ Lyanna placed a hand over the flat of her middle.

It was fear of the gods that drove her towards the godswood. Undoing years of worship was a difficult thing for her; her father, and his father, and every Stark before him was devout and drew strength from worship. For the Kings of Winter, the alabaster trunk of the heart tree had been their bones and its crimson leaves their blood for centuries upon centuries. Lyanna knew that could not change with a Queen-- or a Lady, as it were. It would be something she would pass down to her children as well; she  _ must _ , lest they appear less northern than they should.

When she came upon the great white weirwood and the clear pool, she was surprised to see an occupant— Ashara Dayne kneeled down before the tree, hands clasped, and eyes upward. The sight was made stranger by the fact that Ashara must be a worshipper of the Seven. Nevertheless, Lyanna stepped back to give her some privacy, but the crunch of leaves and snow underfoot give her away. Ashara’s gaze breaks and darts toward her; Lyanna thought she saw tears on her cheeks.

The woman rose quickly. She wiped her face hastily with both sleeves and smoothed her snow-stained skirts. She offered the slightest of curtsies. “My apologies,” Ashara said in a voice that was barely audible.

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Lyanna returned, doubly puzzled. “I was only surprised to see you here.”

Ashara nodded, then shrugged. “There is no sept. I came to pray, though not to your gods.” There was a stiffness, even a coldness in her voice that Lyanna did not recognize coming from the usually sunny Ashara.

“You are welcome to, of course.” Lyanna shifted from foot to foot, feeling the awkwardness of the situation keenly. “What do you pray for?”

“My brother’s safety on his upcoming journey,” Ashara returned cooly. “Someone must.”

Lyanna’s jaw nearly dropped, struck by the tone of her confession. It sounded accusatory to Lyanna’s ears, and judging by her hard expression, she must have meant it to be. Ashara did not spare her any more words; she began to walk back in the direction of Winterfell. 

“I would not send him if I thought he would be unsafe,” Lyanna said as Ashara passed by her. She stopped in her tracks. “Not that I needed to command him; he volunteered to do his duty.”

“I’m certain that is true,” Ashara responded as she turned her head in profile. “My brother often puts duty above himself.”

“Then what am I to do?” Lyanna asked, baffled. “Melt the snows and command winter to stay away?”

“I cannot advise you, my lady. You do what you must,” she returned, even colder than before.

“Yet you seem to harbor an opinion. My fate is tied with his, no matter how I wish it wasn’t,” Lyanna bit out. “If your brother perishes, then your other brother will surely come for my head. I am cornered by dragons, but yes, I still do what I must.” Her rage had gotten the better of her, despite the fact that on a deeper level, Lyanna understood the woman’s fears. Lyanna had only watched her brothers march to battle once; Ashara had done it countless times.

Lyanna closed her fist and let the last of her brief fire bleed out of her; Ashara too seemed to soften, and turned to face her with a wounded expression.

“I did not mean to--” the woman began to say, but Lyanna shook her head.

“No, please don’t,” she said with a sigh, and relaxed her fist. “Your concern is not misplaced, nor are your prayers. I don’t even pray anymore.” That last confession spilled past her lips faster than her thoughts. Lyanna looked away from Ashara to stare at the heart tree that wept so impassionately. It almost looked as if its red tears were retreating into its eyes; it bore little pity for her.

“Yet you came here,” Ashara noted gently. 

Lyanna looked back to her. “Yes,” she said. “To pray for a child.”

The forest and Ashara had made her feel defeated. She undid the belt that held her sword. Lyanna walked to the heart tree, laid out her sword before it, then knelt in the snow. Her trousers would be wet from ankle to knee by the time she rose. She stared up at the heart tree, trying to hear for the whispers of the godswood. But her heart was too cloudy to listen.

_ You’ve witnessed and heard every horrible thing done to me, and you do nothing, _ she seethed internally.  _ Will you listen to me when I ask for a living child? _

Her focus was in pieces by the time that Ashara knelt down beside her. Company or no, Lyanna could not pray, or would not. 

“If it is any condolence, I’ve learned that prayer does not bring children or take them away,” Ashara murmured from beside her. “If one is meant to come, then it will.”

“Then what is the point of praying to the Mother?” Lyanna asked, thinking on the Seven’s simpler gods. She imagined it was much easier to pray when one knew who to pray to; the old gods were not the same. They were many, nameless, but acted as one.

“She gives the gift of children, but one cannot ask for a gift.”

“She does as she pleases then, as all gods do.”

This seemed to amuse Ashara; her lips quirked into a little smile. “That much is true; that is why we must remain in their favor.”

“I think I fell out of favor with the gods long ago,” Lyanna remarked unhappily.

“Do you suspect you are with child?”

“It is too soon to say with certainty.” Lyanna’s shoulders slumped. “But then I do not even know what to look for beyond a missed moon’s blood.”

“That is the first sign,” Ashara offered. “Then you’ll be tired all the time, or hot all the time, or both, and you’ll wake up feeling deathly hungry, but instead you rush to vomit into your chamberpot, your breasts will ache…” Ashara laughed, but it was not mirthful. “It’s not nearly as joyful as older women would have you believe.”

Lyanna looked to her, puzzled at the familiarity with which Ashara listed the symptoms. Her voice had sounded almost wistful, as if recalling a memory. “Ashara,” Lyanna called to her. The woman pulled her gaze from the tree to her. “How do you know all this?”

In an instant, Ashara’s smile turned somber. “It was a slow lesson. I fell into the arms of someone I thought would want me forever, and instead found myself very alone.” She glanced away anxiously. “I carried her for all nine moons, but the babe never breathed the same air as me.”

“I’m sorry,” Lyanna said automatically. It words did well to hide her own shock at this revelation. It was not something Arthur ever shared-- but then, he shared very little, and it was not his place to share this.

Ashara reached over to close her hand over Lyanna’s. “You needn’t apologize. At least now I can share what I learned with you-- about both men and children.” With the reemergence of her smile, Ashara’s disposition had turned sunny again in another blink of an eye. It was remarkable to Lyanna how much control her good-sister was able to exercise over her own emotions. It was a skill Lyanna had sorely lacked her whole life. 

“Thank you,” Lyanna said as she gave her hand a squeeze. “I think I will need help.”

“From what I’ve seen of you, I doubt that very much. But I am here regardless.” Ashara rose gracefully, and wrapped her cloak tight around her. She looked up at the bright, clear sky and it’s light snowfall. “I still can hardly believe it. Snow,” she breathed. “Is winter here?”

Lyanna shook her head. “It’s only summer,” she answered, putting faith in Jory’s words. 

“That is even more incredible.” Ashara smiled down at her. “I will leave you to pray.”

Lyanna listened to the crushing of snow underfoot fade away until the still silence of the godswood returned. She strained to hear its familiar whispers and signs of life, but nothing came. It was truly as if the gods had abandoned her.

Lyanna tilted her face up at the weirwood’s weeping expression. “You cannot leave me now,” she whispered. “Do  _ not _ leave me now.” A sudden wind picked up and made her shiver. Lyanna answered: she shut her eyes tight, and prayed. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna learns to say hello, and goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry for the long wait! Work has been really tough on me and exhausting, I'm so sorry I couldn't get it out sooner. Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> And PS: Ice is fine, it's at Winterfell, and I promise we'll see it soon!

 

Lyanna looked out through the window in the Maester’s tower as she idly crushed together a poultice with the mortar and pestle between her hands. There, in the courtyard, she saw Arthur brandishing his sword against three men. As each one came at him, he deflected and disposed of them as easily as breathing-- a flash of his bright white greatsword, and suddenly they would be laid out flat on the ground. It was mesmerizing, to tell the truth. She had never seen a man move so swiftly or gracefully with a greatsword in hand. He stepped into his movements as if he were swinging a stick and not a sword, with every motion fluid and calculated and practiced.

She supposed he had to be the best, in order to cut down her brother.

The creak of a door being swung open pulled her attention. She watched as Maester Luwin walked into the room, a gentle smile upon his face. “What are you preparing, your grace?” He asked, his head tilted toward the tools between her hands.

“Allyria told me she watched a boy slip and fall, and asked if I could make something for his scraped hands,” Lyanna answered with a shrug. She continued to idly push the finished poultice around, too distracted to move onto something else. Her head had felt heavy and loaded since she woke up that morning-- among other ailments, which had faded but still discomfited her beyond words.

“There is nothing worse to a child than scraped hands,” the Maester returned with a chuckle. She did not watch him speak, as her attention had returned to the scene outside. Arthur was motioning to someone to approach him, a fearsome sight with that blade of his in hand. She noticed that sometimes he wielded it with one hand, but oftentimes with two. It only made sense; a sword that long would be far too difficult to carry with only one hand.

“Is he ready?” Lyanna asked aloud. She set down her tools and looked at the Maester.

“I’ve taught him all he needs to know,” Luwin answered. “Now we can only pray for fair weather and an easy progress.”

The words did not put her at ease; both conditions were a gamble. While the snow had come and gone over the past two weeks, with it currently being gone, Lyanna put no faith in those small respites. A single day could pass between a warm sun and a harsh storm, and there was no telling what would come when. As for the progress itself-- Lyanna tried not to think about it.

“Maester,” she began to ask, “what would you recommend for a heaving stomach?”

“Is it for you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ill, your grace?”

“No,” Lyanna answered. “It only comes in the mornings.”

It was strange-- she had waited so long to speak the words aloud, to announce the true cause of all of her symptoms: her missed moon’s blood, her sore breasts, her morning sickness. Yet, she could not strings the words together without being wracked with fear.

“There is nothing to be done for the cause of such sickness,” the Maester explained gently. “You simply must wait it out.”

It was not what she wanted to hear, but it was what she had expected. “Is there anything I should do? Things I should avoid?” She asked as she fought back the building dread she felt. 

“You need only to eat well, and do not overexert yourself. I must ask that you see me from time to time, to check your progress.”

Lyanna nodded, and let her hand flutter over her middle for the briefest moment. Inside that tower, the world was the quietest it had ever been. If she closed her eyes, she could hear her heartbeat as it hammered against her chest, terrified. 

Lyanna took the poultice outside, to where a boy sniffled pitiably as he watched the men spar in the courtyard, a concerned Allyria at his side. Lyanna kneeled down in front of him.

“I’m going to put this on now. It may sting a little,” Lyanna warned him. The boy looked down at her with wide eyes as she begin to apply the poultice over the exposed skin of his hands. She heard him whimper, but he made no other noise. “It will dry and come off later, but that’s okay,” Lyanna said as she applied the last of it. “Just try not to fall again.”

The boy nodded, and jumped down from his place on the bench, but did not move. His eyes were fixed still on Arthur; she followed his gaze to watch as her husband drove the flat edge of his blade against a man’s middle, knocking to the ground gasping. It took time for him to regain his breath; when he did, Arthur extended a hand to help him to his feet. The man took it. As he helped him up, Arthur’s eyes found hers. He gave her a nod of acknowledgement before exchanging words with the man he had just knocked over.

It was difficult to judge what was worse: her feeling of terror at the new life inside her, or the anxiousness that accompanied wondering what sort of parents Lyanna and Arthur might be. It often felt as if the two of them came from different worlds that were never meant to collide. Yet here they were as husband and wife, and soon as father and mother. What she knew of the man she had shared herself with was hardly anything at all; what he knew of her was even less.

Perhaps that was always the expectation. After all, what did she know of any of her previous suitors? What did they see in her other than her name and her beauty? She had naively believed she could do better, that she could fall in love and be glad, or even run away should matters prove less than savory. She had believed in her own freedom, in the autonomy her brothers allowed her, and she had stood by as it and them all slipped away.

Lyanna rose to her feet and bit back a sigh. She was beyond feeling forlorn now. Either she would prove herself to be a good mother, or she would fail miserably. Either Arthur would be the father her child deserved, or she would spend every waking moment making up for his shortcomings. Nevertheless, he had the right to know that their efforts had taken them this far. He would leave tomorrow, on a long and uncertain progress; he had to know tonight.

Until then, she would wrestle with her fear alone.

* * *

 

 

Lyanna’s hand hovered over the doorknob to Arthur’s chambers. She had never entered them before, she realized, not with Arthur as their occupant. It had been her mother’s chambers years before him; even then, memories of her and of those chambers were hard to grasp at and recall.

Having mustered her courage, Lyanna opened the door to let herself in. She took no time to examine the room, as her eyes immediately traveled to where Arthur sat nude in a copper tub filled with water. If he was surprised or embarrassed her by presence, Arthur did not say. He made no move either, instead remaining where he was in his bath. Lyanna tried to conjure up some shame or embarrassment of her own, or even a simple apology, but none arrived. Yes, she ought to have knocked, but what was left to hide between them?

Lyanna walked into the room, and toward him. She noticed that the water in the tub was still steaming, and that the fire had been lit nearby. Arthur’s hair was wet, and it turned those usually dark blond locks into a shade of brown. Leaning against the side of the tub, beside a clump of wet lye soap, was a sheathed blade close at hand. Lyanna kneeled by the bathtub beside it.

“Do you often bathe with your sword closeby?” Lyanna asked, almost amused. She had not expected such a precaution within the walls of Winterfell.

“Yes,” he answered, seemingly unbothered by her sudden presence. “A habit it appears I must continue into this progress.”

Lyanna touched the black leather of the sheath. “May I?” She asked. Arthur nodded. Lyanna laid the sword across her lap, and drew the sheath off. She realized then that it was the closest she had ever been to the blade that slew her brother.

The first thing that she noticed was how light it was; despite its size, it could not weigh more than a few pounds. It was like Ice in that respect, though Ice was a Valyrian steel blade, and this one certainly was not. There were no tell-tale ripples in the metal or dark smokiness to its color; it was clear and pale, looking more like porcelain than metal. But even that was not an accurate description. In the metal, streaked through it like veins, were lines that were lavender and iridescent. The veins seemed to capture the dim light around it; as she turned it in her hand, the veins flashed, disappearing and reappearing. It seemed to glow, as if it were truly made of out of starlight. The sight made her breath catch in her throat.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted. She could not help the compliment; there was no other word for the blade, no matter what it was used for or who it had killed. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. “Dawn,” she added, announcing the blade’s fitting name.

Arthur nodded. His eyes were not on the blade, but fixed on her.

Lyanna reluctantly sheathed the sword once more. As it slipped back into the leather, its light seemed to be sucked in as well, trapped. “You may be asked to deliver justice with it,” she said as she returned it to its place by the tub. “It must be your hand that does it.”

“I’m the executioner?” He asked, apparently surprised. It was not a practice that extended beyond the North, but it had been their practice for centuries. She would not let it end with her.

“The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword,” she told him, repeating the words she’d heard one hundred times. And like many words of its nature, she knew better than to ignore them. “It is the Stark way.”

“I’m not a Stark,” he reminded her gently.

“No. But you are married to one.” She took in a breath; her heart beat like wings of a caged bird’s, struggling still to form the words of her truth. Her hand gripped the edge of the tub as she built up the courage to say the next words. “And you’ve fathered one as well.” She relinquished her hold on the tub to bring that hand to her middle, but it was caught in mid-movement by Arthur’s grip. Startled, she looked to him, and found him gazing at her with wide eyes.

“You’re certain?” He asked, tone serious.

“As certain as I can be,” she answered, hoping she sounded less fearful than she felt. Alarm reflected in her husband’s face, but then he relaxed. His grip was no longer so crushing; he raised her fingertips to his lips, brushing the merest kiss upon them, and then bowed his head.

“Thank the Mother,” she heard him whisper under his breath. “My lady, watch over my wife and the child she carries. Lend her your strength and extend your mercy over us all.”

_ He’s praying, _ she realized rather belatedly. She did not relate to his gods, but tried not to feel awkward as he continued on.

“Thank you for this blessing, my lady, and protect us all,” he added. When he looked back up at her, his eyes were misty with tears. “You could not have given me a greater gift.”

Lyanna was unsure if he spoke to her, or the Mother. He did not seek a response, nor did he protest when Lyanna drew her hand away. She felt at a loss for words herself, jarred by his emotional reaction, and still shaken by this new truth. A child, the very thing she prayed for, grew within her now. It was a heavy thought to bear. Exhausted by the weight of it, she rested an arm along the rim of the tub and perched her chin upon it to look at Arthur--  _ really _ look at him.

He was not terribly handsome, this husband of hers. His nose was large and crooked and his face was weatherbeaten and scarred, making him look older than his twenty-six years. His thick dark brows looked heavy on his face, leaving him looking permanently downcast. He did not possess the bright, delicate beauty of his half-siblings, or even the darker beauty of his true siblings. Time and war and duty had worn him down, but it had also whittled his body into a shape that was hard and broad and powerful. Though she would never admit to admiring such a thing, it had left her impressed on more than one occasion. Now, however, Lyanna’s eyes did not roam his naked form either below or above the water, but remained fixed on the scar on his shoulder.

_ Brandon’s favor _ . The injury that had healed far too quickly left behind a scar in the shape of a star, a pale white against his bronze skin. She reached out to touch it, and felt the ridges it had left behind like a mountain range. Her fingers trailed down to where his heart beat. _ Just a little lower, Brandon, and perhaps things might have gone differently. _ How differently, she wondered? Would Rhaegar have brought his wrath upon her harder? Would he have taken her castle as well as her head? Would he have wed her to a lesser man, someone more insulting, more of a brute? Would he have left her her name? Did Rhaegar love him enough to hurt her more?

Yet it was that beating heart beneath her fingers that had lent itself to her, the heart of the father of her child. The heart that had ended the male line of House Stark would now continue it-- and the gods laughed at them all.

Lyanna gave a shuddering sigh.  _ There is a child taking root, Arthur’s child, my child, and in less than a year I will meet it, _ she admitted to herself. The thought excited her and frightened her all the same. To become a mother to a single child somehow seemed more of a daunting task than becoming the liege lady of thousands of people. In such a task, she could truly say she had no preparation for it.

She was struck suddenly by a longing for her own mother, the woman she barely knew. How much easier things would be if she had one still— a Stark to guide her not only through being a Lady of Winterfell, but how to be a mother too. Her mother might have assisted her through this strange and sudden marriage better, and this strange and sudden husband. Perhaps her mother could have been able to smooth her brow and scatter away her worries and her shame. Perhaps her mother would have urged her to enjoy happy and intimate moments, to take joy where she could find it. Or perhaps she would tell her that to be a woman was to suffer, especially a woman in her position.

“Tomorrow, then,” Lyanna murmured, making a quick break from her troubling thoughts. “Am I making a mistake sending you away in my stead? Northmen are not as soft and easily flattered as the southron you’re used to.”

“They do strike me as more toward,” Arthur mused, a smile upon his face. “But you needn’t worry. I am capable of speaking to men, at least.”

Yet Lyanna knew it ran deeper than that. She had seen how easily he turned men to his side, how even children adored him, and heard of women offering to warm his bed. Arthur had a way with people, a subtle way, which Lyanna assumed lied in his simple and straightforward approach to everything.

He had left his hand beside hers, palms opened upward. Lyanna’s fingertips found the set of hard, milky calluses along the base of his fingers, and traced them. She wondered how early an age such callouses appeared on his hands; she wondered how long they took to harden and form. Though hard and rough they felt now, Lyanna could not recall anything but gentleness from those hands. Now, she would be absent from that touch indefinitely. Coming to that realization brought a strange twist to her gut. 

“Did you want to become a mother?” Arthur asked her, swiftly drawing her out of her thoughts. 

“I…” Lyanna stopped to consider it. Did she? “It was always expected of me.”

The look on her husband’s face told her that she did not answer his question.  _ Did I want to be a mother? _ The desire was never forthcoming, no. It was a duty she knew she would be assigned to one day-- but it was not the worst duty. On the occasions she did think of it, of being a mother to some man’s children, it was never as loathsome of an idea as marriage itself. She had feared being a wife to a cruel or undignified man, but never feared being a mother to his children.

“I did not mind the idea of being a mother,” Lyanna finally admitted. “Though now that it will happen, it is a little terrifying.”

“It frightens me too,” Arthur admitted, running his free hand over his face. “I only ask out of fear that I might have forced you into another role you did not desire.”

“I fear even if I did not desire it, it would be a natural consequence of desiring you,” Lyanna said with a sigh. It was not until the moments after that she realized just what she had admitted to, and she felt her cheeks color. She was almost too embarrassed to look to Arthur for his reaction, but when she did she was further chagrined to see him look surprised. “What?” She asked sharply, flustered. “Do you believe women incapable of feeling the same desire men do?”

“No, not at--”

“Perhaps I am not as experienced as you are in such arts, but nor am I a fool. I’ve enjoyed it very much.” To her mounting frustration, he laughed. She withdrew her hand from his in a huff, and sat up straight. “What is so funny?” She demanded.

“I only wonder how I misled you to believe I was experienced,” he returned, smiling. Lyanna’s chagrin was quickly replaced with befuddlement. “There has been one woman before you, and I’ve been years out of practice since.”

Lyanna blinked. “There is no need to lie to me,” she said in a grumble. “I do not care what women came before, so long as I am the only woman for you now.” It was hard to believe that a man would impose such a vow of chastity upon himself; the only one she knew to restrain himself so was her own sweet brother Ned, who had likely been chaste more out of shyness than choice.

Yet Arthur had no response for her. He was smiling still as he leaned back into the tub, relaxed in the still steaming water. But Lyanna’s interest had been piqued; who was this girl, and what made her special enough to be the only one? She did not believe it, however much she wanted to know. She returned to leaning on the bathtub, and dipped her fingers in the water idly.

“Won’t you tell me about her, then?” She asked, her gaze fixed on him sidelong. She was trying to sound casual, careless, but she knew she did care; she wanted to know.

“Hmm.” The noise was made low in his throat, as if debating whether or not he should say. The sound alone was enough to increase her feeling of suspense. “Her name was Nessa. She was sweet serving girl on Dragonstone who made me into a man, many times over,” he began to recall rather wistfully, with the smile to match. It almost irritated her anew, until his face suddenly fell. “Then one day I learned she had been married to a man who worked our fields, and I did not touch her again.”

Lyanna raised a brow; the brevity of the tale surprised her. “What did it matter to you?”

“I did not like knowing that I was more loyal to her than she was to her husband.”

“And she never carried your child?”

“She had two lovers and no children. I do not think she could carry a child.”

It was when Lyanna’s shoulders relaxed did she realize that she had been tensing them at all. “Fortunate for you,” she remarked blithely.

“Indeed. I did not want to have a bastard.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of the tub, still lost in thought.

“Did you love her?” Lyanna asked softly. Did she care? Not really, but she wanted to know.

“Love?” He made a noise that sounded like a scoff. “No. I have not known the feeling,” Arthur admitted. “My love has only ever belonged to my family.” 

“You really are like a dog,” Lyanna returned, almost amused. He did not say anything in return; he merely remained smiling, no doubt still lost in thought about that lover of his. It almost made her wish that she had a similar story to share; but the truth was, she had hardly ever thought about men. She had thought of them plenty when her father had been alive, afraid of who he might stick in her bed for the sake of earning some lord’s favor. But during her girlhood, and in the time following her father’s death, men and marriage had been as distant a thought as a star in the sky. Now that star sat across from her in a copper tub full of warm water, having crossed a distance that may as well have been the same as from the sky to the earth. 

“Lyanna,” her husband’s voice called to her. “I must ask a favor from you.”

Lyanna nodded her agreement without thinking.

“Should I perish on the road forward, do not let Ashara take my siblings to Dragonstone, or to King’s Landing. If she insists on leaving, let her. But allow Allyria and Ali to remain here.” His expression, and voice, were hard and serious. It sharpened her attention to a finer point, and she focused with greater care. “I will not ask you to care for them. I know you will see to their needs. But my sister deserves respite, and a chance to be alone, if she wills it so.”

“I…” She was struck temporarily dumb by the sudden request. Yet it was not a large request, and one easily done. “Very well. If that is what you want,” she relented.

He seemed to relax immediately. “Thank you,” he said. He then splashed water over his face, and rose. Lyanna initially looked away, concerned with preserving his dignity, but quickly realized how ridiculous that was. Instead, she watched her husband dry himself off with a towel someone-- a servant, no doubt -- had smartly hung by the fire.

He had been drying his hair when Lyanna rose to meet him, leaving the wet locks flung out messily atop his head. He looked down at her with some interest. She wondered if he were peering into her mind, and saw how much she held back and could not say. Around him, she often felt like a dam about to burst.

“You cannot die on this road ahead,” Lyanna said with more conviction than that sentiment deserved. She took his hand and rested it on her middle. “You have someone who waits for you.”

He dropped the towel to let it hang at his shoulder. With one hand still pressed to her middle, he held her face with the other and kissed her forehead. Her heart fluttered in her chest, unused to such intimacy; yet she leaned into the touch, glad for that little bit of comfort. As painful as it was to admit, she had no one else to take comfort from; her gentle husband, her brother’s bane, was all she would have in terms of a partner. The gods were cruel, but they had allowed her at the very least, a man she could depend on. She almost wept at the thought-- almost.

The tenderness of the moment was soon replaced with the stirrings of desire which simmered low in her belly. She wanted to lift her head and kiss him, to press her body to his wet and naked form and let the moment take them where it may. It could be the last time, after all.

_ No, it won’t be the last time, _ Lyanna told herself.  _ He will return. _

It took all she had to take a step back and collect herself. She all but flung herself out of that pull and continued to the window across the room, where she stood with her back to him, her fingers tapping nervously against the sill. Whatever was this attraction between them threatened to drive her mad.  _ Perhaps his absence will make it better, _ Lyanna told herself.  _ I cannot desire what I cannot see.  _ She closed her hand around the fabric of the nightgown across her middle.  _ This is all that matters now. This is what I must live for. _

She wondered if she could force herself to feel her mother’s spirit in this room, a woman to help her make sense of it all. She shut her eyes tight and tried to think of her, but instead her mind wandered to Marsh King’s daughter of eons past. No doubt it was her children that became Kings of Winter after the Stark husband who slew her father and took her as a wife. Did she mourn the arrival of a child, or welcome it? Was it a choice on her part at all? That woman had no name or legacy to protect, not like Lyanna. Yet she hoped for her sake that the Stark king had been good and gentle to her; she could not imagine such a fate otherwise.

When she felt a presence at her back, she nearly jumped. Lyanna whirled around to look up at a now clothed Arthur with her jaw set. His hand rested ever so slightly at the small of her back. Lyanna tried to shy from the touch.

“Would that I could stay and care for you myself,” he whispered. She felt his fingers snake up into her hair. 

_ He likes my hair, _ Lyanna realized, unwarranted. She had learned to interpret his touches over their short time together, and through them learned what he liked best on her. Even absent words, it occured to Lyanna that there would always be something that betrayed a man’s true thoughts. Thus far, Arthur’s had been nothing short of tender.

Still, she knew she could not give in so easy. Lyanna lifted her chin in indignation. “I do not need you to care for me,” she returned curtly, trying to put fire behind her words, but instead her voice was thin. “Your duty lies on the road ahead. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

He shook his head. “I only mean--”

“You must rest now,” Lyanna interrupted before she reluctantly breezed out of his reach. “You’ve a long journey ahead of you tomorrow.”

“You may stay, if you like,” he said in return. His expression appeared almost pleading.

“Stay and do what?”

“Whatever it is you want to do.”

Lyanna almost laughed. “Surely by now you’ve learned to spend your nights without me?”

She had been smiling, but Arthur was not. He gave a wave of his hand and slumped his shoulders in a way that signified some sort of defeat. He leaned back against the windowsill, and crossed his arms. “Your comfort comes first, my lady,” he announced in a flat tone. His expression was one of barely disguised disappointment. In this, at least, Lyanna could steel herself against pity. She had suffered far worse than disappointment, and her body was hers to give, and take, if that was what she chose.

“So does your rest,” Lyanna returned. It was not what he wanted to hear; and oddly enough, it did not feel like what she wanted to say. Nevertheless, she walked to the door and put her hand upon the knob. “Good night, Arthur,” she said with her back to him. She paused, and waited for a response.

“Good night, Lyanna,” he answered, a touch of exasperation still evident in his voice. Lyanna smiled to herself, feeling unexpectedly victorious, and returned to her room.

* * *

 

 

The next morning was clear skies, fair weather-- and almost warm.

Lyanna watched as Arthur bent down to kiss his youngest sister on the cheek; Allyria rebuffed him in favor of an embrace, with her arms thrown around his neck. Arthur returned the embrace and appeared to whisper something in her ear; when they separated, Allyria was sniffling, but bravely holding back tears. For Ali, he gave a kiss on top of his head and gentle clasp of the shoulders. His brother returned the gesture with a simple nod.

Ashara had stood back as she wrung her clasped hands. Her older brother kissed both her cheeks and began to speak to her; Ashara’s upturned face betrayed none of the sorrow or anxiousness she surely felt. She only smiled, and nodded, and even managed a laugh.

Lyanna looked away, and over to where Jory Cassel stood. He was nodding at something his uncle was telling him; when he noticed her gaze, he quickly strided over to her, then knelt before her.

“With your blessing, your grace,” Jory said, head bowed. Surprised at the sudden submission, Lyanna quickly bent and clasped his elbow, urging him to his feet. He followed her lead, his plain, familiar face looking down at her with an uncertain frown.

She clasped Jory’s hand between her own, and squeezed it fiercely. “I know you will do your duty, captain,” she said, full of heart and hope for her young captain, and old friend. “Do it, but return to me unharmed.”

Jory stepped back to bow at the waist and kiss her hand. “I will do my best,” he promised, and Lyanna knew he would. He may not like his new liege lord, but Jory was loyal and brave, and true. Behind him, Arthur approached. Jory needed only to look back to see, then walked away to mount his horse. Her husband stopped in front of her, close enough to where he could speak with no one else to hear them. Lyanna looked up at his hard face, coming terms with the fact that it would be some time before she would see it again.

_ Thank the gods, _ was her first thought, before her throat closed up unexpectedly. 

“My men have orders to make themselves useful to you,” were Arthur’s first words to her. “If they fail in that, feel free to put them in the kennels.”

Lyanna’s eyes widened; did one of his men report to him with the things she said? It did not really matter, she supposed. That they feared her word enough to scamper to their commander was satisfying enough to make her smile.

“Perhaps there they could learn to be as useful as my dogs,” Lyanna returned wryly. Arthur smiled ever so briefly before his expression turned serious.

“You must take care of yourself,” he urged her. “Ashara will help you in whatever you need help in. But I beg you, eat well, and do not overwork yourself.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out folded up piece of paper. He took her hand in his, and pressed the paper into her palm. Lyanna looked down at it; it was opened, but the wax seal was still attached. It was crimson, with the imprint of a three headed dragon. “In this, my brother swore your protection should something befall me on the road ahead. He will take care of you. It is his word.”

Lyanna looked down at the paper in mild disappointment. “A piece of paper is not a shield,” she said.  _ Words are wind, _ she wanted to add, but refrained from doing so. If words were wind, then Rhaegar’s were thinner than air.

“You were never in any danger. I only asked that he put it to paper, to ease your worries.” Lyanna must have appeared increasingly doubtful, for he added, “I would not go forth if I believed you in danger from him. I know you do not trust him, but try to trust me.”

“I am trying,” Lyanna murmured, followed by a sigh. She pulled her hand from his, taking the paper with her. It was useless to her, though it meant something to him. She tried to imagine herself handing that paper over to Rhaegar when he came for her head; a burst of dragonflame would render it, and her, a fleeting memory.  _ Words are ash as well. _

Arthur continued to look down at her, his hand in mid-air where she had left it. His eyes locked firmly with hers, brows furrowed and mouth slightly parted. It felt as if he were trying to speak something else, only without any words. But Lyanna could not translate his gaze; no one had ever looked at her like that before. Goosebumps prickled up and down her arms.

“I will write you,” he finally said before withdrawing from her. He climbed atop his great white horse, cutting an impressive figure atop it. He was tall and broad and proud, with reins fimly in hand, his thick cloak fanned out behind him. It was the image of a lord, and while he was one, it was up to him to convince the rest of the North of it. She almost pitied him in this task; it would be his toughest battle, and perhaps his first loss as well. She could only hope that this loss would not cost him his life. “Take care, Lyanna.”

Lyanna nodded, and watched him ride out of the north gate with Winterfell’s men in tow.

_ Please, let them return safe and whole, _ she found herself praying.  _ Let today be the day that I see those who walk out of those gates return to me as well.  _ She crushed the paper in her hand and shut her eyes tight.  _ Please, if not for me, then for the child within me. _

By the time she had opened her eyes again, her men were gone. She let her shoulders slump, and turned to face Winterfell, so as to retreat indoors.

“Princess,” Ser Rodrik’s voice called to her, from behind her. Lyanna whirled around to look at her master-at-arms. He placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “Merry nameday.”

Lyanna blinked, confused, before the meaning of his words struck her.  _ It is my nameday, _ she realized, apparently having forgotten entirely. Today marked the day that she turned nine-and-ten; it was not a momentous age by any means, made bleaker still by the fact that she had no family to celebrate it with. There seemed to be no point of celebrating such a thing anymore, not when she grew older while her brothers remained forever young.

“Thank you,” Lyanna finally said with a weak smile for his sake, unable to manage any more than that. The significance of the day only served to upset her, though she knew it was not Ser Rodrik’s intention. Yet now she wanted nothing more than to return to bed and sleep until the sun rose again, and dawned on a different day.

“Lord Dayne left something behind for you. A gift,” he added. The words took her by further surprise.  _ A gift? _

“But how did he…?” If even she had forgotten her nameday, then who would have reminded him of it? Moreover, why would he give her a gift?

Taking advantage of her shocked silence, Ser Rodrik spoke again. “I’ll retrieve it for you,” he said, before moving to leave.

Lyanna looked back over her shoulder to where the closed gates stood.  _ Damn you, Arthur Dayne, _ she cursed to herself.  _ I did not ask for a gift. I got my gift already. _ She brushed her hand over her middle and sighed.  _ He is not even giving me a chance to refuse. That’s hardly fair.  _ And to assign her dear master-at-arms to deliver the item… it felt duly underhanded.

An arm looped in hers. Lyanna looked to see Ashara, appearing faintly concerned. “Are you alright?” She asked, eyes darting knowingly between her face and her middle.

“I’m well,” Lyanna answered as she mustered yet another mirthless smile.

The beautiful woman gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “I pray that is always the case.”

Lyanna swallowed her latest sigh. The Daynes were out to kill her with kindness before she drowned in her sea of bitterness. On the other hand, perhaps that was what she needed: kindness, for babe that grew inside her. A drop of tenderness could clear even the murkiest of hearts-- but it was a difficult drop to swallow when one felt that they deserved to be alone.

“Thank you, Ashara,” Lyanna murmured before patting her goodsister’s hand. She then trained her eyes on the door that Ser Rodrik disappeared into, and awaited the latest onslaught in the battle she was quickly losing ground on.

_ Forgive me,  _ she begged, though she did not know who she asked it of.


	16. Chapter 16 / The Sword of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Dayne travels north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, something different going on here, which surprises even me. I did not initially go in wanting to make Arthur POV chapters, but I also did not want to leave Arthur's progress as one big mystery explained later in exposition. This did, however, get out of hand as I intended it to be only one chapter, but now will most likely be spread across 2 or 3. When I mentioned this to a friend, she said that no one ever complains about having more chapters to read, so hopefully you guys like this direction.
> 
> Enjoy, and again, so sorry for the delay. I hope things get more regular for me soon.
> 
> Thank you as always for reading! I read every comment I get, I promise, I just rarely have time to respond.

 

Arthur Dayne was no stranger to long and arduous journeys-- he had taken many of them, from the Wall to Dorne to Essos, on horseback and on foot and by boat. Nevertheless, experience did not prepare him for travel in northern mountains during late summer. The mountain trail they took now was among the more difficult paths he’d traveled upon. Their horses had to be led by foot, lest they slip and bring their riders down with them. The pace was slow, the path was steep, and the ground underneath treacherous, but the only thing Arthur could think to rightly complain of was the cold. He had been sniffling and rubbing at his nose ever since he had left Winterfell, and the air had made the skin on his face and lips feel raw. He was unused to heavy cloaks and furs he wore in feeble attempt to stay warm, but also made each step feel heavier and more taxing. His companions faced different challenges-- they slipped often on snow covered rocks underfoot, often stopped to catch their breaths, and asked far too frequently if they neared the holdfast they searched for. Arthur took a queer pleasure in seeing them falter; the northmen had done well to paint themselves as hard and tireless men, but it seemed to him that most of them had made enemies of mountains.

When the path grew less steep, Arthur looked up and squinted against the sun. He saw the outline of a building higher up on the mountain, sitting atop the flattest part of the peak and framed between two valleys farther ahead. He had never seen a sweeter sight; a building meant fire crackling in the hearth and warm food in his belly. A man grew tired subsiding only on dried meat and breads turned cold and tough by the air around them.

“It seems we’re nearly there,” Arthur called back to the men behind him. Several sighs of relief followed.

Jory Cassel clambered up to his side, all but dragging his horse behind him. Arthur had yet to form an impression of the young captain, but he had quickly learned that he was not fond of Arthur, and was prone to glaring at the back of his head and frowning in his presence. Nevertheless, he was among many people who were not fond of Arthur, and he tried not to mind the captain’s quiet dislike.

“That would be House Flint’s holdfast,” Jory explained, almost begrudgingly, as he was clearly trying to keep from panting.

“House Flint,” Arthur repeated under his breath. _They call themselves the First Flints,_ Arthur recalled his lessons with Winterfell’s patient Maester. _The chief is called The Flint. Lyanna’s grandmother was a Flint, though she never knew her. Her name was Arya._

As they completed their climb, Arthur found himself feeling tense-- no, not just tense, but _anxious_. This would be his first meeting with a northern lord, who was not truly a lord at all. Yet as he had learned it, the Flints and all the mountain clans were loyal to House Stark-- distant, perhaps, but loyal. Did they hate him for slaying their Stark king? Did they hate him for taking a Stark’s seat? Perhaps they had a right to hate him, but did they hate him enough to kill him?

He thought of Lyanna back in Winterfell, and the child that had begun to grow within her. _Bread and salt,_ Arthur reminded himself. _I want no quarrels, only their bread and salt and protection. If they do not offer that, then I will leave._

The castle, if it could be called that, was a tenth the size of Winterfell. Instead of standing wide, it stood tall, like a spire jutting out of a mountain. They did not need to go inside to find people-- their arrival was noticed by those who worked outside, and they all stopped to stare at them.

Arthur wondered if he looked like a foreigner in their eyes. He was dressed like them, in furs and leathers, travelled like them, and ate like them ever since he had arrived in this frozen land, but he supposed none of those things could hide his brown skin or purple eyes. He could not hide it among the other kingdoms he had visited, in truth, save for Dorne where he seemed to blend right in. Only then, he had had Rhaegar at his side, who with his silver-blond hair was the more unusual sight in any location.

Arthur walked up to the nearest man, who had stopped leading his goat to look at him with mild curiosity. “I’ve come for an audience with Lord Flint,” Arthur explained to him. “Would you tell me where I could find him?”

The man was older, with a weatherbeaten face. He tugged at his white beard and scrutinized him through bushy grey eyebrows. “Who asks?” He inquired with a note of suspicion.

Arthur glanced up to make sure House Stark’s banner had been unfurled on its pole. Indeed, a grey direwolf was running on a field of white cloth, and difficult to miss. He then shifted his gaze to Jory Cassel, and waited for him to announce him and his titles, as few as they were. The young captain looked back at him quizzically. Arthur grit his teeth and swallowed a sigh.

“I am Arthur Dayne, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” Arthur said, the titles still new and clunky on his tongue. They did not fit him-- not yet, anyways. “I’ve come to seek audience with The Flint.”

A perceptible hush fell upon the mountain top. The man he spoke to stiffened, and led his goat away, but not before he spat at the ground between them. The mood shifted; where there once was work and idle chatter was replaced with mutters and efforts to move away from the man who had announced himself before them. Arthur flexed his sword hand, open and closed, in an effort to work the tension away in his body.

“My lord, I think--” Jory began to say.

“Quiet,” Arthur cut him off sharply. If advice was to follow, he did not wanted to hear it, for it was too late for that. He felt foolish and hapless, and more foreign than ever. _Bread and salt,_ he reminded himself. _Bread and salt, and nothing else from these northmen._

Arthur continued forward, toward the hall. His men followed him, but at a greater distance than before, no doubt fearful for the first time of what it meant for them to have cast their lot with him. Only Jory remained hot on his heels, and soon caught up to him. Arthur was at the threshold, one hand flat upon the door, when a voice boomed out behind him.

“Clan Flint recognizes no Lord of Winterfell, and this man is not permitted within our doors. There is only the Kings and Queens of Stark, of which you are not,” the voice cried out, deep and bellowing. Arthur turned to face the source of it.

He was a man of great stature, as tall as Arthur but wider and broader. Almond shaped eyes and thin lips hid behind an overgrown set of eyebrows and great bushy red beard. His stance was wide beneath his leathers, and draped upon his shoulders was a bear’s pelt, the head of which rested upon his head like a hood. Another item of note was his battle-axe; he held it at the ready, its steel edge gleaming in the sunlight.

“You think because you’ve taken Winterfell that you can take our hall as well?” He asked, red-faced with rage. “Perhaps you were hoping to treat yourself to my daughter as well, and rape her in the bed she was born in like you did King Rickard’s little girl?”

Arthur flexed his hand again, itching to ready his own blade. He was no stranger to insults; worse had come from the lips of his own father, but that had been when he was only Arthur, not Arthur Dayne, and not the lord or commander of anything at all. But that had been practice for days like today; he swallowed the lump of fury that had jumped up his throat like bile, and let himself calm.

“I did not come to take anything, my lord,” Arthur returned cooly. “On the contrary, I was sent to ask what House Stark could give you before winter arrives.”

“I’ll not treat with you,” the chieftain snarled. Surrounding him were other men, equally burly and chagrined, each with a weapon in hand. They could have been his sons, or perhaps just sworn men, but none were glad to see Arthur Dayne. In the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Jory rest his hand upon the pommel of his sword. The captain was fearful; Arthur, however, was not. _Fear is the first loss that predates the second, captain,_ Arthur thought. _Fear is foolishness._

For some men, it was also bravery-- but not for Arthur.

“Then I must ask you give me safe passage to my next location,” Arthur returned, voice still calm. He would not give the chieftain the pleasure of begging.

“No,” the Flint answered as he began to lumber forward. “I was not given the opportunity to avenge the men you felled upon the Trident. I will not let it slip through my fingers now.”

It was then that Jory darted between them, arms outstretched. “My lord, I must remind you that an attack upon Lord Dayne is an attack on House Stark itself,” the captain began to speak quickly, half-pleading. “He was sent forth with the princess’s protection and blessing, and it would be her that bears the consequences of your actions when brought before the Dragon King.”

Arthur held his tongue to keep from biting back an insistence that Rhaegar would do her no harm, but he sensed it was the wrong time for that. The captain was trembling and desperate. Arthur looked upon his aggressor and his readied axe. The look on his face was not new to him; he was raging and tempestuous and bloodthirsty-- but mournful as well. Upon hearing Jory’s words, a flicker of hesitation crossed his features. He even paused in his tracks. It might end there; perhaps good sense would triumph and Arthur could conduct his business, but he knew men like him. The mountain clans were said to be proud, and they respected strength, not words. Consequences were not enough.

Arthur shrugged off Dawn, and held it sheathed in his hand. “A challenge, then, my lord?” He asked cooly. “With terms.”

The Flint’s face turned hard again. “What?”

“The first who yields is the loser. Should I win, you will grant me an audience as well as your bread and salt. You will give me your oath of protection for the length of my stay upon your lands. If I yield,” Arthur paused, mulling it over, “you may do what you like with me. It is your land, and your laws I follow.”

Jory snapped around so quickly his sword belt shifted upon his hips. “Are you mad?” He asked, barely keeping his voice to a whisper. “I can get us out of here without foolishness. If you fall--”

“I won’t fall,” Arthur returned simply. He moved past the captain, and faced his opponent. He was wrong about before; the Flint actually stood nearly a head taller than him. “Do you agree to the terms, my lord?”

The Flint’s hands tightened around the handle of his axe. His lip twitched in what Arthur could only assume was barely contained rage. He supposed that if he could, the Flint would choose to tear him apart with his own hands.

“I agree,” the Flint answered, his voice now low and hard. “Clear the yard!”

Arthur pulled Dawn from its sheath, and pushed the latter toward Jory, who took it with a sputter. “You are putting more than your own life at risk,” Jory hissed, ever-dogged. “You put the princess’s at risk. I will not allow you to do that.”

“The princess will be fine without me. I daresay, she’ll thrive,” Arthur returned blithely, successfully removing emotion from those words. Now was not the time to bemoan the fact that his wife could barely suffer him. “And if you stand in my way, I will cut you down as well.”

The captain’s face darkened, but he backed away. That left only cold, hard ground between Arthur Dayne and the Flint of the mountains.

The Flint moved first, bellowing a war cry as he charged and took his first swing. Arthur heard the whoosh at his ear as he moved to dodge, careful not to overcorrect and lose balance. The Flint swung again, and again, and Arthur moved again and again, feeling like a boy on Dragonstone practicing how to dodge. _A great weapon like that, my lord, you’re like to tire yourself quickly,_ Arthur mused as the next swing sent the edge of the axe into the stony ground, and sent sparks flying out around it. It was the perfect opening; Arthur took it, and cut the chieftain along his side, Dawn’s edge easily slicing through his leathers and grazing upon bare skin.

The Flint grunted, but made no other indication of pain. He continued his dogged assault, and Arthur continued to find openings, cutting him little bit by little bit. The man’s moves were too predictable, his swings too hard and fast. He couldn’t hope to land it on someone who had plenty of room to move and parry, though Arthur imagined it would be deadly on a packed battlefront. If he only slowed down and calculated his movements, then perhaps--

As if having read his mind, the Flint took an unexpected swing, one with a smaller arc and less power behind it. Arthur raised Dawn to parry, but it was too late; he felt the edge of the axe connect with his cheek, leaving a fresh and bleeding cut behind. The cold immediately bit at his open skin, elevating what would be a swift sharp pain to an extending the agony. Arthur could see the Flint grin at this small victory, though there was nothing to grin about. The giant of a man bled from so many different places that it seemed every inch of him was soaked with blood.

Arthur collected himself quickly; noticing that his attacks were growing slower, Arthur began to return blows faster and more often. This was where Arthur shined; he had been training with swords even since he could stand on two feet. When Dawn was in his hands, the world around him made sense. His attacks came swiftly, fluidly, naturally, the line between man and sword blurred until Arthur Dayne himself became a weapon. It was not long before the Flint swayed upon his feet-- until he finally fell like a crumbling mountaintop. Blood covered him from head to toe, and seeped upon the ground. If he did not yield, he would die, and if he died, then the progress ahead would be made all the more difficult. _As would my marriage,_ Arthur noted grimly. _This will not please Lyanna._

Arthur stood above the Flint, Dawn pressed into the ground by his neck, the edge angled at his throat. “Yield,” Arthur commanded, though he supposed if he must he would beg it of him.

The Flint’s bloodied lips parted, but no words emerged.

“Yield,” Arthur repeated, more urgent. “Have you not children to live for? A daughter to protect? _Yield_.”

It felt like an eternity before the words escaped his lips: “I yield,” the Flint announced in a raspy whisper.

Arthur tossed Dawn aside and kneeled beside him. “Is there a maester here?” He asked aloud to the stunned crowd that had gathered. He had to admit, he was surprised no one else lunged at him-- but perhaps they respected the rules of duels more than he thought. “Quickly, let’s get him inside.” Arthur positioned himself by the large man’s shoulders. Jory quickly joined in helping to carry him, and once the initial shock had faded, others among the gathered moved to help him too.

“Ha,” the Flint said in what was barely a whisper. Arthur looked down at him, concerned. “...by a _southron_.”

Arthur nearly sighed. _I’ve been called worse, I suppose._

 

* * *

 

 

The duel was not the last. For every holdfast he had visited in the mountains, a lord came out to fight him. It must have been a custom, or perhaps they had heard with happened with the Flint, but nevertheless Arthur accepted each duel with the same terms. In the end, he received his bread and salt in each place he visited, as well as a couple of new scars and the begrudging respect of stubborn lords. Jory had all but given up halfway through this ordeal, and neglected to plead with the second half of mountain chiefs. With each new duel, he had sighed and taken Dawn’s sheath, then positioned himself to later help moved the disable lord indoors. In this way, Jory Cassel finally became useful to him.

Nevertheless, Arthur was glad to be out of the mountains. It was not long before he realized what a difference the heated walls of Winterfell made; his cold had worsened up in the cold mountain air, and for half his trials his nose had been running and his head had felt like a rock. There had also been a couple of close trials; the Wull had been a short, burly man, hardly up to Arthur’s shoulder, but had wielded his battlehammer as if it were as light as a feather. Arthur still bore the bruise the weapon left across his stomach, once purple but now mottled with yellows and blues. He could hardly even eat after that trial, though the Wull had prepared a grand feast, as every chieftain had. He had forced down the bread and salted meat, however. No matter what state he was in, he always reached for that first.

The next castle was Last Hearth, which he had learned was the closest holdfast to the Wall. This came with its own set of challenges; the Maester at Winterfell had explained how it suffered wildling raids often, with such attacks growing more frequent as winter neared. The rulers of the castle were the Umbers, a house that was purportedly old and fiercely loyal to the Starks. _But not to me,_ Arthur reminded himself. He had tried not to let Lyanna’s praises of the Umbers or the Maester’s objective reporting of the vassal houses nestle comfortably in his head. Not a single lord had bent the knee or sworn fealty to him. Lyanna had kneeled for them, in submission to the King, but her people did not do the same for him.

They had travelled through forests and trekked upon hills that were often as challenging as the mountains they had left behind, but Last Hearth eventually appeared on the near horizon. From what Arthur could see, it was a castle made of dark stone, nestled in trees in such a way that it would have blended into the darkness of the forest, had it not been for the white snow that capped the rooftop and provided an outline of the building. The snow had been coming down in feathery sheets both in the mountains and down below; yet somehow, this did not count as signs of winter. Arthur shuddered to think what a northern winter looked like. It was then that Jory caught up to him on his horse.

“That is Last Hearth, I believe,” Jory offered as if it were new information. “The lord of the castle is--”

“Jon Umber,” Arthur interrupted brusquely, in hopes of demonstrating to the captain that he was not as clueless as he seemed. “They call him the Greatjon. He fought at the Trident.”

“And was injured,” Jory completed. “He had uncles who perished as well.”

_Wonderful. That’s precisely what I needed._

Arthur could not help but sigh. He had known from the start that not a single step would be easily taken, but he would have been glad for a little relief. His cold was becoming a permanent fixture by now, and he did not want to be caught sniffling and sneezing before a bloodthirsty Lord Umber,

The gates parted as they rode up to them, without making so much as a creak. Stablehands wordlessly walked up to them as they dismounted and spirited their steeds away. The yard was empty and eerily silent. Arthur looked to his men, who appeared to notice nothing amiss, and then to Jory, who gave him a sidelong look of worry.

“I will enter and announce you, my lord,” he said, dark brows still knit. Arthur nodded, and followed the captain to the doors, which opened without warning. Arthur raised his hand and tightened it around the strap across his chest that held Dawn to his back. He was able to look out past Jory and into the hall; there were a great many people gathered, but whatever conversation they were carrying out before had ceased upon their appearance. At the end of the hall sat a man in a great wooden throne, surrounded by other men-- and what Arthur believed to be a woman as well.

Jory cleared his throat before speaking, the noise almost echoing throughout the silent hall. “Entering Arthur Dayne, Lord of Winterfell and Warden--”

A sharp bark of laughter cuts the announcement short. It came from the man on the throne-- no doubt the one they called the Greatjon, if looks were enough to go off of. Arthur let the laugh roll off him.

“--Warden of the North,” Jory completed. It was not a long list of titles, and while it still should have been impressive, they had yet to impress anyone. The Greatjon was no exception.

“ _Lord_ of Winterfell,” the Greatjon repeated in his deep bellow. “I never served a lord. I served kings-- Kings of the North.”

As they walked further into the hall, Arthur heard the doors shut loudly behind him. He tried not to take the sound as an omen. Instead, he looked to the Lord Umber, arming himself with the lordly confidence that came so easily to Rhaegar. The Greatjon was as Arthur had imagined him: large, certainly larger than him, burly, with a thick dark beard and long dark hair. He sat on the throne with legs spread wide, and a greatsword in hand, tip pressed upon the ground like a staff. The greatsword was larger than Dawn, but it possessed none of its beauty. It was roughly made of unpolished steel, with no ornaments beside frayed leather on the hilt. By sight alone, one would consider it a frightening weapon, but Arthur knew better than to judge by sight. A weapon was only as good as the man who wielded it.

“I come on behalf of Lady Stark-- or Queen Lyanna, if you prefer,” Arthur said as he met the lord’s eye. “All I desire is your bread and salt, and to speak with you about the coming winter.” Simple requests, but as Arthur had learned, they were not easy requests.

The Greatjon let out another short bark of laughter. “Didn’t you see the snow outside as you were coming in?” He asked, grinning from behind his beard. “Winter is all but here for us. What can you do?”

“Not just me,” Arthur clarified. “House Stark.”

“House Stark,” the Greatjon repeated, as if musing upon the name. “There is only the princess.” He raised the greatsword with one hand and used it to lazily point at him. “And you killed her brothers and took her from me.”

Arthur furrowed his brows. “Took her?” He repeated, confused. There had never been any mention of a betrothal, not by Lyanna nor by the Maester. Were they in love?

“King Brandon had agreed to marry her to me, if she consented,” he explained. “But Brandon liked me best out of the other suitors. She would have been mine within the year, had you not come along.” He was grinning, but did not seem amused. He also struck Arthur as exceedingly confident; if she did not consent quickly, then what reason was there to believe that she would do so eventually? In the short time they had been together, Arthur had swiftly learned that Lyanna was as stubborn as a mule and held fast to hard feelings. If she did not consent immediately, then he imagined she would not have consented at all.

Arthur’s gaze wandered to the woman a ways off beside him. She tall and skinny, with wavy flaxen hair loose over her shoulders. She might have beautiful, perhaps, had her eyes not been puffy and her face streaked with tears. She had the same look as women he’d seen in war ravaged villages, women who’d been taken advantage of and discarded. She was frightened, and stood stiff and wide-eyed in her place. Whoever this woman was, she was not glad to be here. “You’re married now, my lord,” Arthur said with a nod towards the woman, venturing a guess at her role on that dais. Her eyes managed to widen even further.

The Greatjon paid her a sidelong glance, hardly even an acknowledgement. “She’s not my wife. She’s another man’s wife.” He beckoned her over with a wave of his hand; she reluctantly obeyed and took small steps toward the Greatjon, but stopped within arm’s reach of him. The lord leaned his sword against the throne and roughly grabbed her arm. “Tonight is her wedding night. Since the princess has beseeched me to treat you as my guest, I’ll give this First Night to you.”

Arthur was caught by surprise. He knew what First Night was, of course, as his own father partook in it. Girls from his fields and lands would show up at the castle, still in their wedding finery with tears in their eyes, and would leave the same way. The woman before him now was no different; she trembled and as she bravely fought back tears. Arthur wondered where her husband was now; likely waiting back at their new home for her, and drinking heavily.

Desire was not the problem here; Arthur was not easily tempted, and he had pledged his body to his wife in the sight of the gods. To refuse her would be an easy task. The difficulty laid in relaying his refusal without also relaying insult. A task made duly difficult by the fact that the offering felt like an insult to start with, as if Arthur Dayne would only be too eager to take a strange woman into his bed. Arthur opted for simplicity.

“I do not want her,” he said firmly, and fixed a hard look upon the Greatjon. He would not thank him for it; it was a thoughtless gift.

The Greatjon’s smile did not slip. “I would think a bastard like you would jump at the opportunity to father a half-southron brat,” he remarked cruelly, to the chorus of snickers around him.

Arthur set his jaw, cognizant of the bald insult. He’d heard it before, half a hundred times. Bastards were meant to beget bastards, for they were careless and lustful and selfish. “Not this bastard,” he bit out. “Return her to her husband.” The command fell swift and heavy, as all commands should, but it felt even heavier in present company. A louder silence followed those words, and the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stood straight. Yet he would not take it back. He would not soften the words or rescind the command. That was his will; bastard or no, he’d see it done.

Finally, the Greatjon gave a lazy shrug, then released his hold on the woman. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand; the woman wasted no time in rushing down the hall, past Arthur, and out the door.

“There’ll be others. She’s not the bride I want anyways,” the lord said lazily. “I promise you, when our dear princess becomes a widow, I will be the first at her door, bastard.”

Arthur’s patience was wearing thin. He knew better than to expect the respect and reverence meant for his new station, but he also a man with some pride. If the Greatjon were one of his sworn men, he’d not have thought twice to teach him to respect his commander, no matter how big the man or his greatsword. But this was a parlay between two lords, and Arthur knew his role in this duel.

“I came here to discuss matters with you, hopefully in private,” Arthur announced, ignoring the Greatjon’s words. “I was sent here to--”

“Tomorrow,” the Greatjon interrupted in his booming voice. “You’ve had a long journey, my lord. We’ll speak tomorrow. Show him to his chambers,” he commanded of the men beside him, men nearly as big and burly as him.

“Some food first, my lord. Your bread and salt,” Arthur protested. “I am hungry more than I am tired.” A lie, but a necessary one to get the protection he needed. Yet he was swarmed by the men who had vacated the Greatjon’s dais, men with weapons upon their hips and backs and no doubt had more experience than the ones that Arthur had brought along with him.

“I’ll have it sent to your chambers,” the Greatjon responded as he leaned back in his throne. He spun the greatsword on its tip.

“Lord Umber,” Jory Cassel’s voice broke out, though he too was being overwhelmed. “On behalf of the princess, we ask--”

“Young Cassel!” The Greatjon proclaimed, followed by a short bark of laughter. “The captain of the princess’s guard! Your father would be proud.”

“My lord--”

“Tomorrow, Cassel.”

Arthur opened his mouth to continue the protest, but found himself jostled forward by the Greatjon’s men. He almost had a mind to unsheath Dawn and start swinging, but he did not want to be the first to fight. Perhaps this was only a cold greeting-- not a set up or a trap. But Arthur did not trust the Greatjon, and the Greatjon surely did not trust him. He allowed himself to be led to his chambers until the door was shut behind him. He quickly swung it back open at find Jory Cassel standing there, eyes wide in alarm.

“I don’t like this,” Arthur grumbled immediately. He shrugged off Dawn and pulled it out of its leather scabbard. He leaned the blade against his shoulder. “I want men at my door and around the castle. Any unusual movement should be reported to me as soon as it happens.”

“I don’t like this either, my lord,” Jory admitted after some hesitation. “Though I believe that your rejection of First Night did not help your case. It’s an insult to refuse a lord’s gift.”

Arthur’s jaw nearly dropped in shock at the accusation. “That was not a gift. That was an afterthought at best.” He shook his head. “I’m married, captain. I would not have accepted under any circumstance.”

The captain at least appeared sheepish. “It was not a gracious rejection-- it doesn’t matter,” Jory added in a grumble. “I will do as you say.”

Arthur nodded, glad to at least have the captain’s support, but no less concerned. Cold receptions were expected, and quite a change of pace from the heated, explosive duels he’d been partaking in. It should have been a _welcome_ change of pace, had it not been for the nagging sense that something would go wrong. He was trapped inside a lord’s castle, having not partaken in his bread and salt, and therefore put himself in the very situation he had been warned against.

He closed the door once his own men were stationed, and retreated into the room. It had been set up for him, at least. A fire crackled in the hearth, and there was even a bathtub filled with steaming water awaiting him. Such amenities appeared like traps now, and Arthur would not enjoy either. Instead, he sat behind the writing desk and leaned Dawn against it, at his side. There was paper and ink provided for him; he prepared both, and began to write.

_Lyanna,_ he began, _Apologies for not writing sooner. The mountains had no ravens to spare, and a messenger would have taken too long. The progress there was successful,_ Partly a lie, but there was no reason to worry her with the details of duels, _though the lords asked nothing from House Stark. They had long been prepared for winter, they said. I am at Last Hearth now,_ He paused to think of what to say. He did not want to alarm her by informing her of the situation he was in; it could be some time before he could write again, and if this truly was the place where he would die, then she would find out sooner than this letter. _Warm and content. I think of you often. I hope you are well, and that your own progress has been less arduous than mine. Give my love to my siblings._

Arthur tapped his index finger against the bottom of the paper as he thought. He tried not to think of his marriage as a one-sided transaction, though that was often what it felt like. He was not a domineering man by nature when it came to women and his family; he allowed them to make use of him the way they saw fit, and he in turn tried to perform well enough to earn their devotion and prove himself. Yet that same concept felt wrong in the construct of marriage, more so now with a child on the way. That had been their binding thread, the one thing the two of them eagerly wanted and awaited. Yet that same thing would be the one thing they had to work together on, to put aside all other feelings and behave like partners in favor of giving the child a happy and healthy home.

Arthur could not help but want to be her partner in more than just parenting, though. He wanted more of that night before he left Winterfell, of his wife vulnerable with an open heart, touching him without desire attached, but simply because she wanted to touch him. Though even then he had been left wanting; he had wanted to sleep by her side, to share a pillow and talk to each other, to pretend for a few hours that they were simple people, with simple lives.

...But men who killed their wife’s brother and took her lands and castle had no right to quarrel or make demands. He would simply have to take what he can. _And with both hands._

A knock came at the door. Arthur sprang to his feet, Dawn in hand. “Who is it?” He called out. The door swung open, and one of his men, Arden, pokes his head in.

“A servant arrives with food, my lord,” he announced, and moved aside to let said servant in. She was only a woman in drab clothing, who did not appear alarmed at his blade and simply swept in to set down the tray on the table in the middle of the room and swept back out. When the door was shut once more, Arthur took measured steps toward the tray, gripping Dawn as if his bane would jump out of the plate and come straight for his throat.

There, upon the silver tray, was a loaf of bread and a pile of salt. It might have been funny, had it not been for Arthur’s extreme apprehension. Beneath the bread was a piece of paper. Arthur plucked it out gingerly, and opened it slowly.

_For the bread and salt lord,_ it read in a man’s rough hand.

Arthur scoffed, and tossed the paper down. It was an insult wrapped in a peace offering, but that was not why Arthur would not partake in it. Poison was as great a fear as an ambush, and despite his growling stomach, he would rather wait for a meal he could share with the Greatjon and his people than bite into a nightshade laced loaf of bread. Nor was it a guarantee of safety he could rest upon; he signed off on his letter, turned his chair to face the door, and rested Dawn over his shoulder, hilt in his lap.

If they planned to come for him, then let them come. But he had no intention on dying tonight; he had a child on the way, and he wouldn’t let anyone keep him from holding it in his arms.

The hours dragged on in a long and torturous night; Arthur jumped at small sounds, and hands gripped Dawn’s hilt till his fingers ached. He tried to take the edge off by comparing it to the night of the vigil, the night he spent on his knees praying in the sept after he was knighted at four-and-ten. He took not a wink of sleep as he prayed and prayed and prayed until his knees ached. Yet he remembered emerging from the sept feeling stronger and more alive than ever. But he had been much younger then, his time had been occupied with faith, and there was no fear of an assault. It was hardly the same thing, no matter how much Arthur wished it were.

Yet Arthur was hardy, for if he wasn’t, he would have been useless to his family and his father. He remained awake and alert. Nothing and no one came to harm him in the night, other than his cold and his own nerves; but when dawn broke, the room felt like no less of a sanctuary. Arthur groggily stood up and lumbered over to the washbasin, Dawn still resting on his shoulder. He splashed cold water on his face with his free hand, doing it over and over until he felt a little more awake.

His head was pounding. He needed food, and perhaps a little wine, to wash it away. Arthur moved to the door, swung it open, then sprung back. The Greatjon stood looming outside, and though he was alone, the glimmer of his greatsword over his shoulder could not be missed. Arthur gripped Dawn with both hands, prepared for a fight— but the Greatjon only laughed.

“Do you want a duel or a to break your fast, my lord?” The man asked in his great booming voice, an amused twinkle in his eye. Arthur lowered Dawn and eyed him suspiciously. “Bread and salt can hardly fill a man up. You’re my guest; you must come and eat with me.”

The men that Arthur had guarding his door seemed far more relaxed then he. Perhaps they had an instinct he did not, an understanding of the Greatjon and other northmen that he did not possess. Arthur begrudgingly let himself relax. He found Dawn’s sheath and put her away, then slung the blade over his back.

He followed the Greatjon back to the Great Hall, which louder and more alive than it had been the night before. Arthur felt he had stepped into a totally different hall than the one he was in last night; the people seemed merry, mirthful, and did not even notice his entrance. Jory caught up to them from across the hall and gave Arthur a nod; he had dark circles under his eyes, which meant he was as sleepless as he was.

“There was nothing to report, my lord,” Jory said quietly. Arthur returned the words with a short nod. ‘Nothing to report’— those words should have sounded sweeter, but on tired ears they gave him a bitter solace.

The Greatjon sat with him at the high table, where food had been laid out in a most enticing display. Arthur’s stomach was all but howling; he had not eaten for so long, yet he did not reach for anything. He clenched his fists over the table and wondered if it was safe to eat, safe to let his guard down, safe to trust. The Greatjon was must have noticed, for he laughed again.

“Eat!” He cried out as he reached for a leg of lamb, and bit into it. “I’ll not be murdering you in my home or on my lands, no,” he said while he chewed around the meat. “There is nothing the gods hate more than a man who mistreats his guests. Your time will come, but not here. I swear it before the gods.”

That was enough for Arthur. He reached for whatever was closest to him, more eager for sustenance than to savor the taste of it. The salty juice of a chicken thigh burst into his mouth, and it took all his restraint not to moan at its welcome.

“You arrived at a troubling time last night,” the Greatjon said as he too ate, albeit at a much slower pace. “There was a wildling raid in a village a few miles north from here. We had just returned from dealing with it-- there were some dead.”

Arthur swallowed hard and followed it with a cup of warm wine. That at least explained the cold reception last night. “Was it the first this year?” He asked.

“Hardly,” the Greatjon remarked with a huff. “It was not even the biggest. But we lost a lot of men at the Trident. The bloody wildings hit harder than they do before. And this,” he slipped off the glove on his left hand, and revealed to Arthur a gnarled hand with only a pinky and thumb, “does not make fighting them back easier.”

As far as lasting injuries went, a few fingers was no trouble-- but when wielding a greatsword, it was hard not to have two good hands for the task. “Do you need men?” Arthur asked. “Winterfell had some men to spare.”

His words fell on deaf ears, however, as the lord continued to stare at his maimed hand. He wiggled the fingers that still worked in an almost macabre display. “The Trident was a river of blood and ash that day,” he mused aloud. “I was lucky to only be cut to shreds. The dragonfire could have ended me. It’s what did it for my uncles.” He shifted his dreamy gaze to Arthur, where his eyes turned hard and cold. “I watched you kill Brandon on the Trident,” the Greatjon said, now turning deathly serious. “Our king was young, but he had heart. He would have ripped your throat out.” He paused, and ran that near-fingerless hand through his beard. “But I saw you. You were… calm. A pillar of peace against Brandon’s rage. Then you drove your sword through his heart, and it was all over.”

“That is war, my lord,” Arthur returned simply. “And a better death than the ones his brothers had. His sister had a body to look upon.”

“Women have tender hearts,” the Greatjon said flippantly. “The princess should have been spared the sight, and the trial of marrying you. She is delicate enough as it is.”

Arthur could have laughed. _She is as delicate as you are small, my lord,_ he wanted to say. But has was right about the marriage, at least. She did not deserve it so soon after her loss, did not deserve to have to live with the man who helped bring about her brothers’ demise. Alas, that was what Rhaegar bid him to do, and Arthur always obeyed.

“I did not jest last night,” the Greatjon added. “If you do not fall at my sword, you will fall at someone else’s. I’ll make the princess my wife before your body turns cold, bastard,” he said with grin. “Young and pretty as she is, with her father’s blood— I think she’ll give me strong sons. One to take Winterfell, the other to take Last Hearth, and the rest to do as they pleased.”

The man’s grin suddenly appeared lurid, and coupled with his words it prompted something to rear its head and flare within Arthur. Men were free to speak of Arthur as they wished; but when it came to talk of his wife, Arthur preferred they hold their tongues. “Unlikely, my lord. She carries my child; your sons will simply have to settle for Last Hearth,” he announced plainly, and took queer satisfaction from watching the Greatjon’s smile slip. He broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth, then chewed and swallowed quickly. “Now, tell me about these wilding raids. Perhaps together we can think of ways to discourage them from crossing the Wall.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are made in the dark, and justice is brought to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Sorry again for the delay!

 

_Lyanna,_

_Apologies for not writing sooner. The mountains had no ravens to spare, and a messenger would have taken too long. The progress there was successful, though the lords asked nothing from House Stark. They had long been prepared for winter, they said. I am at Last Hearth now, warm and content. I think of you often. I hope you are well, and that your own progress has been less arduous than mine. Give my love to my siblings._

_Arthur_

Lyanna set down the letter, almost amused at how clearly Arthur’s voice came through. It was short and quick and simple and betrayed very little, exactly like her stoic husband. She had trouble believing that his situation was as unremarkable as he made it out to be; but then again, he had seen and done much more than her. The progress was no doubt quaint in comparison to the other journeys he’d taken.

Lyanna folded up the letter and tucked it away in a drawer, the same drawer that held Rhaegar’s “promise”. That promise was a short letter that brought her husband comfort, but had only filled her with further apprehension. She had read it once, then put it away. It would not be her shield in any fight.

Lyanna put her faith in other things— first in herself, and second in her people.

A knock came at her solar’s door. Lyanna rose as she bid the visitor to enter, then smiled at who she saw.

“My letter reached you, thank the gods,” Lyanna said as her wrung hands relaxed in relief. “I was not certain it would. When the Maester said no ravens would find you, I found myself having little faith in a rider.”

“We know when we must be found, especially when the Queen of the North calls,” a low, quiet voice answered before he dropped into a kneel. “To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Greywater. Hearth and harvest and we yield up to you, your grace. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire."

Lyanna felt a strange sorrow at those words, and her old title. She knew the crannogmen would be the quickest to cling to old ways, but she had not expected a show of loyalty so soon. But then, there was good reason that her family had put faith in House Reed for as long as they have. No matter what others called them, they were loyal men-- Stark men.

“Rise, my lord,” Lyanna urged him. “And please, abandon my old title. I am neither queen nor princess. I gave up that right.”

The man before her rose. The first thing one noticed about Howland Reed was his height. He was a short man, about as tall as her, with a slight build to match. Then he was set even further apart by his dress; he wore a cloak of moss green over a doublet made of a dark, scaly leather. His boots too were made of that same leather, and higher than most, reaching up to his knees. He had a head of dark, shaggy hair and most notably, dark green eyes. On his back was a spear with a pointed black head, and a fishing net. He was like the swamp come to life, all green and dark and mysterious.

“With your forgiveness, I should like to continue calling you by the title you carried when I first met you. It is the title you deserve,” the man replied. His voice was low and calm, at peace and at ease. It made her feel the same.

“I was a princess when we first met, my lord,” Lyanna pointed out with a small smile.

“Then I shall call you princess.”

“I would prefer you called me by my name, as you once did, so I may call you by yours.”

This coaxed out a small smile from the crannogman. “I would not deny the princess that little thing.”

Lyanna abandoned trying to change his mind; so many still called her by the title that she laid on the ground at Rhaegar Targaryen’s feet. It was kind of them to forget her shame, yet painful to be reminded of it.

“Thank you for coming, Lord Howland Reed. I heard of the bravery of your people in the Neck.” Whenever she felt hopeless she recalled the story Arthur had told her of the arrows from the dark, his men knee deep in swamp and falling one by one. It was a macabre story, to be sure, but it had made her heart glad. The crannogmen did not give up simply because the battle was lost; Lyanna would not either. “I am forever indebted to you.”

He shook his head. “Not at all. It is I that owes you a debt of loyalty.”

“I’ve done nothing to earn it. Nothing at all. And still, I will ask a favor of you.”

Howland bowed. “I will not soon forget the kindness you and your brothers extended to me when I entered your hall those years before.”

The last she had seen him, it had been at Brandon’s crowning. She could not recall doing anything extraordinary. The small crannogman had knelt at her brother’s feet and swore his fealty by earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire. He had looked out of place among the others, dressed in lizard-lion leather with that spear and net slung across his back. She recalled the whispers that flared up when the hall looked upon him; yet the man was undisturbed, and stood as tall and straight as his small stature would allow him. When Brandon accepted his pledge, Lyanna had invited him to her table, where the crannogman proved to be more likable than any other lord she had the pleasure— and sometimes displeasure —of meeting.

She could remember it with somber clarity, how quickly Benjen and Ned took to their new crannog friend. Benjen liked his cleverness, and Ned liked the wisdom in his silences. Lyanna liked that he was different. The crannogman cared not of what others thought or said of him. Even when the grumbles of “frog-eater” were loud enough to reach their ears, the crannogman neither blinked nor frowned. He had traveled a great distance alone, flanked by none of his people, dressed in the clothes he deemed practical, and swore an ancient oath that she had never heard before, and never heard again till this day.

He had been given a place of honor to lay his head, in the rooms next to Ned’s, in the same hall his king slept in. Yet the crannogman displayed neither smugness nor pride to the others denied such an honor. He only knelt at Ned’s feet and thanked him, and grew as large as a giant in Lyanna’s heart.

“That was nothing,” Lyanna insisted. “What I will ask of you now is not nothing.” She looked around the solar, searching for something the could not be found. “My lord, may we speak somewhere else?”

He moved to the door as if it were a command, and opened it for her. Lyanna led him through the halls, out of the castle and down-- down, into the crypts where her family laid in eternal rest. She led him to the back, to where her father and brothers stood both immortalized and entombed in stone. Only her mother was a name and not a statue. Lyanna ran her fingers across the inscription on her tomb. _Lyarra Stark._

“I have put myself in a difficult position,” Lyanna said, eyes still fixed on her mother’s tomb. “I sent my husband away on a progress I would have preferred to take myself. I’ve done what I can to make sure he’s safe; but my faith in my men and my people only goes so far.” She finally pulled her gaze away from the stone toward her small crannog friend. “If someone were to kill him, then I would be left at Rhaegar Targaryen’s mercy. My husband could only offer me a letter, a promise of protection in Rhaegar’s hand. I do not trust it.” She paused for a moment. “Am I right to do so?”

It had been her natural instinct to mistrust and hate Rhaegar Targaryen, though she knew nothing of him other than that he brought the war to the North and killed her brothers along with thirty thousand northmen. She had elected to never ask after events in the capital, never to ask the Daynes what they thought of their eldest sibling, and she knew she would never care to hear it. But was she being paranoid, to believe that Rhaegar would break his word to his trusted half-brother? Did she see cunning and deceit where it did not exist?

“He has given you no reason to trust him,” Howland said in turn, blessedly confirming her belief. “Mistrust is wise, I think.”

Lyanna managed a small smile, glad only not to be considered completely mad. Her hand moved from the cold stone tomb to rest on her middle; there was the smallest little bump now, barely more than a slight protrusion, yet it may as well have been larger than life for Lyanna. It was further proof of her own hope. “I’m with child, you see. So I mistrust for two.”

The crannogman’s face lit up. “That is joyous news, princess.”

“Lyanna,” she corrected, “and it is. Yet I’ve not rejoiced once; I’m kept awake with worry and fear. If something should happen to Arthur, I will not depend on Rhaegar’s word to guarantee my safety— or the welfare of my child. That is why I turn to you.”

Secretkeeping was not a new hobby of Lyanna’s. She has been keeping secrets for as long as she could remember, from harmless ones such as a piece of cake under her pillow to grandiose plans of escape should she need to avoid a match her father made for her. The one she would keep now was no doubt her largest; she would not tell a soul of this, and she had sought out an accomplice who would not either. Greywater Watch was unfindable, and its lord and people reclusive. She had nothing to fear from the crannogmen; and they feared nothing in turn.

Lyanna could see the crannogman’s brows knit in thought, having already determined her meaning. Yet a response did not come forthright. It instantly made her anxious. No doubt she was simply being impatient, but her tongue got ahead of her, frantic to explain.

“If word arrives that Arthur Dayne has perished, I ask that you take me to Greywater Watch until I am due. I will keep the babe with you,” her voice grew thin without her volition; this was the hardest part to recall, “and you must raise him— or her —away from Rhaegar Targaryen’s grasp. I will not give him the chance to take mine own child from me. I will answer for whatever crime he accuses me of and he may do what he likes with me; but I will never allow him a second chance to wound me deeper than an axe or dragonfire ever would. I cannot allow it.”

The crannogman was still silent, still pensive. He didn’t know how it tore at her heart and made it feel like her lungs had shrunk. She clutched his hand and swiftly dropped to a kneel before him. It pained her knees to fall so quick and hard, but she ignored it, more desperate to speak.

“I will beg you if I must,” Lyanna admitted as she squeezed his hand. “I cannot let Rhaegar near my child. I do not care if he means neither of us harm; it would be so easy for him to take the babe from me—“

“Lyanna,” Howland gently cut in as she grew more hysterical. There were tears on her cheeks, she realized now, and her breaths came in short gasps. Her friend looked down at her in alarm. He helped her to her feet with his hand still clasped in hers and the other hand at her elbow. “There is no question. I will do it.”

Lyanna’s hands were shaking as she drew them away from him to wipe her cold cheeks. She could feel ashamed, if she let herself, but she did not believe there was shame in seeking to protect your own blood. “I am sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry. I just cannot lose this child. I will not see it taken from me. I am not strong enough.” She sniffled pitiably. “I am sorry to ask this of you. But there is no place like Greywater Watch. The walls of Winterfell are strong, but they are not hidden.”

Howland nodded his understanding. “But why not remain with me? Why not raise your child yourself?”

“And remain in fear of the Targaryens for the rest of my life?” Lyanna shook her head. “I am a Stark of Winterfell. My place is here. If Rhaegar loves his half-brother enough to kill me, then so be it. I will finally rest beside my brothers, and I will die peacefully knowing I have brought another Stark into the world. That was my only duty.” She had once chastised Maester Luwin for narrowing her duty down to childbearing, but he had the right of it. Lyanna Stark did not matter; her name might be lost to history as the Marsh King’s daughter before her. But her children, this child, would matter. The child would be the future of House Stark; Lyanna was merely struggling in the present.

“I pray it does not come to this,” Howland said softly. He appeared to her as mournful, as if already sorrowful at these events that have yet to come to pass.

“I do too.” It was terrifying to leave her fate in other people's hands, worse still to even imagine abandoning her own child. But she would rather abandon her child to those she trusted than those she hated.

Howland pulled his sorrowful gaze away from her and to a statue behind her-- that of Brandon’s. She followed his gaze to that freshly carved face, hard and brave in the way that she tried to be. Upon his brow was carved the crown of the King of the North, the one she had surrendered and never seen since. She wondered what had happened to it. She never thought to ask; perhaps she did not want to know. It was better off believing it had simply disappeared, than to think it was in Rhaegar Targaryen’s possession.

“Do you want this child to rule the North?” Howland asked. Though his gaze remained on the statue, Lyanna knew he was addressing her. Only she was so mad as to talk to stone.

“Only if it is safe for him to do so. Only if the dragons are gone and his people will have him.” Survival-- survival was more important. She would be the Stark in Winterfell for as long as she was allowed, and would die praying that another would one day follow her. _But if the Stark line must continue in secret, then so be it._

“Or her people,” Howland added. She looked over at him to find him smiling. Lyanna returned it with a weak smile of her own.

“Or her.” She had not considered the prospect of a girl, large in part because she did not want one. It would be too difficult to have a daughter, too unkind to bring a girl into this world. Girls suffered more than boys. Girls could be just as brave and strong and true, but the world would only see them as meek and weak and stupid. Girls could be forced to kneel, forced to marry, forced on their backs and forced to live while the men around them died. No, Lyanna did not want a daughter. She had grown up motherless but fortunate; her child might grow up motherless, fatherless, and alone. When Lyanna died, the world would still belong to men-- better the child be a boy, and have a chance own a part of it too.

 _I wonder if you believed the same, mother?_ She asked of the tomb beside her. _Did you weep for joy when I was born, or for sorrow?_

Lyanna knew she would weep for both when her child arrived, boy or girl.

“I am sorry I was not there to fight by their side.” Howland Reed’s voice was a mere whisper in the dark. The sorrow in it was plain to hear.

Lyanna shook her head. “Crannogmen must protect the Neck. That is your duty,” she said, her voice equally thin and hoarse.

“Yet we could not even do that.”

Lyanna could not explain the sudden anger she felt at those words. Men put so little value in life, and too often measured their worth in victory. How glad she would be to hear a northman express relief at living another day, or some sort of sorrow at the lives wasted in war. “You fought and you lived, Howland,” Lyanna said, her voice hard and firm despite the fear she had displayed earlier. “That means more to me than you could ever know.”

The crannogman bowed his head. “It means something to my wife and daughter, I’m sure,” he agreed softly.

“It must mean something to my brothers, that I am left with someone to depend on. I am alone enough as it is.” Lyanna sighed away the last of her bitterness. “I am sorry to trouble you with this, and to part you from Greywater Watch,” she mumbled as her looked down at her wrung hands. “It won’t be for long. Should he survive, he will be back within a few months’ turns. If it goes wrong, then we leave Winterfell much sooner.” She turned back to her friend. His green eyes looked black in this dim light, with candlelight speckling gold in those dark depths. Howland Reed always looked like he knew more than he let on, as if he had already seen a few moments into the future and was calm because of it.

“I am your man, Lady Lyanna,” Howland said with a bow.

“You need not bow for me, Lord Howland,” Lyanna returned with little of the earnest sincerity he displayed. Still, the lord allowed her a rare sheepish smile. “Winterfell welcomes you. I have had Ned’s rooms prepared for your stay. Feel free to settle in when you please.”

“By your leave, Lady Lyanna.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes and nodded. The crannogman slipped away quietly and swifter than his shadow on the wall.

Once he had disappeared out of sight, Lyanna knelt at the Ned’s feet where he stood in the middle of the three statues. It would have been like when they were children huddled on the floor around Old Nan, or sitting at a table in the Great Hall together, laughing and japing on their shared bench. Only now it was grim, and cold, and lonely-- statues could not gasp along with her at a twist in Old Nan’s story or make her laugh until her sides split. Still, sitting there made her want to curl up upon the cold stone floor and sleep forever, content to be sharing the same sacred space as them, in a place where they could be together until the end of time.

“As you’ve heard, I’m with child,” she whispered to her brothers, her hands folded over her middle. “You’ll be uncles. Or, you would be…” It felt worse saying it aloud, knowing they could not congratulate her for it, embrace her, kiss her, be glad for her. The thought made her want to weep, but even that was unbearable for her. To cry alone in these cold crypts, where Ned could not reach out to comfort her or Benjen couldn’t goad her into a preferable fury instead would mean she would weep for the rest of her life. She set a hand on the edge of Ned’s stone pedestal, and pressed her forehead upon it.

“I’m sorry I’m not braver,” Lyanna whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry I can’t avenge you the way I should. I want to believe you’re glad for me, no matter the man I share it with. I want to believe you’re glad I’m alive, and well, and still a Stark.” She raised her head to look at Brandon, whose strong emotions could not be captured in stone. She was glad for that, at least. She could not bear for his rage to be plain on his face. “The man who killed you is gentle and good to me, Brandon. It erases nothing. It changes nothing. He is kind to me. I want to believe you are pleased by that.”

Her brother had always cared for her honor more than she, but what of her happiness? For lately when she thought of Arthur she could spot it on the horizon, that dim sun of joy that was too far to grasp, and she too cold to feel its warmth.

“We are starting a life together, without you all,” Lyanna managed to choke out as her throat tightened in heartache. “I will have a family again, and yet I feel so empty. It will never be the same for me. It will never be right-- but I want it to be right for this child.” She wrapped an arm around her middle and squeeze Ned’s stone foot. “So please-- do not think ill of me when I pray for Arthur Dayne’s life. I pray not for me. I pray so that your nephew will know my love for the rest of his life. I pray so that I can tell him stories of you all.”

The stone said nothing, and did nothing. _I’m mad, I know,_ Lyanna thought to herself as a sob took over her voice. _I speak to statues like they understand. But they have to understand. I need them to understand._

She had to force herself to stop crying. She bit down on her own tongue until she tasted blood in her mouth. _Direwolves do not weep,_ Brandon’s voice rang in her head. That had been over scraped knees and hands, but even at a young age she knew what it meant. Lyanna was a Stark; she had to be brave. She balled her fist up in her dress, knitted her brows together, then glared at Brandon Stark.

“If I do not make you proud, then my child will,” Lyanna declared. “Only give me the chance to raise him, and make him a Stark.”

The taste of blood mixed with rage. It had always went down better than sorrow, and a direwolf was never stronger than when it would bare its teeth.

* * *

 

 

Time seemed to pass slowly in Winterfell, as if the very air itself was trying to suspend itself in time before winter came with all its fury. Yet no matter how slowly or how swiftly time chose to pass, Lyanna was still keenly aware of it. She measured it in two ways-- through events, and through the growth of her babe.

 _Two moons since Arthur left. One moon since Howland arrived. Four moons with the babe inside me._ The number of days in between mattered little to her, so long as they passed with ease. Her days were filled instead with preparation for winter-- not only in Winterfell, but abroad, for whenever a lord or lady made a request of Winterfell. Lyanna filled them as she could; they were her vassal houses after all, and this had been House Stark’s job ever since such contracts were made with them thousands of years prior. Yet as Maester Luwin had reminded her more than once, she had another contract with the smallfolk that was just as important.

Lyanna had been watching the winter town begin to populate ever since the first snowfall. More and more people would gather as the weather shifted and those who were without adequate shelter and food would flock to Winterfell for its protection and provisions. Such a sight had been a joy as a child-- there would be new faces, new stories, new adults to bother and new children to play with. Now when Lyanna looked upon the ever-swelling ranks of smallfolk in her hall, she was filled with a desperate fear. Instead she thought of whether or not the stocks would last them all a long winter, if she was prepared to turn away people, and if she did, what would happen to her?

There was little to assuage such fears other than numbers and her steward’s objective reporting of them. She had hoped that such numbers would begin to make sense to her after some time, but there was no such luck. She did not understand, at least not when Beron explained them to her. Their last meeting had been no less comforting, and in a fit of frustration she had exclaimed to him that, “if Ned were here, he would explain it better”. Beron had went silent after that, and so did she, for it was all she could do from wailing out of despair.

She pondered upon all this as she laid in bed, her body too tired and leaden to move. She had only recently found relief from morning sickness, but in its place came an exhaustion she could not recover from. It would be so easy to fall back asleep; her body wanted it so bad. If she closed her eyes, she would surely drift off to sleep again, only to wake feeling more tired than before.

But she could not allow herself that luxury, not today of all days, for today was the day that she would be providing an audience to those who needed disputes settled and justice delivered. Today she would remind the North that she was a Stark-- a woman, yes, but no less a Stark.

With a heavy sigh, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had slept in the nude last night, having felt insufferably hot and suffocated by her nightgown. Now as she looked down upon her body, she had come to realize how foreign it was becoming to her. She had a belly now where she once had none; it was a slight bump, but a bump nonetheless. Even her breasts were changing, as they felt and looked swollen. They were noticeably bigger right down to her nipples, which she swore were changing their color. She touched one out of mere curiosity and withdrew quickly with a shiver. There was simply no touching them; between the incessant ache and this new sensitivity, she decided she would simply try to ignore them the best she could.

Lyanna placed a hand over her middle instead. The babe was growing, she was sure of it, but she had yet to feel it quicken. She had recalled seeing pregnant servants in her halls, gushing over feeling her babes stir in their bellies for the first time, and later, stopping to comment on the child kicking within them. Lyanna knew it was too soon for kicks, but it was not too soon to feel _something_. She needed to know it was alive, that it was present, that it was real and healthy and lively.

A knock comes at her door. “Lyla, your grace. Are you awake?” A young woman’s voice called from behind the door.

“Come in,” Lyanna said. Her chambermaid swept in and shut the door behind her. She was balancing a tray of food in her hand, that she set down on the bedside table. Then she swiftly made her way over to the chest of drawers to find a shift to dress her in. Lyanna relented to being made decent, raising her hands above her head to assist her. She frowned down at how the fabric stretched over her newly swollen parts.

“You’ve an early day, your grace,” Lyla said kindly. She brushed her hair behind her ears.

“And a long one,” Lyanna added with a sigh. She took a bite out of the buttered bread on the tray. “Help me to get dressed, please.”

It was important today that she looked like a Stark. She chose a grown of gray with silver roses embroidered on the edges of her sleeves. Across her shoulders she draped a cloak of grey with white fur trim. The attire did well to hide her burgeoning bump; none would be able to tell except for herself, though she had taken note of the new tightness in the bodice.

As Lyla braided her hair, Lyanna looked upon the final piece of her outfit, the thing that would give her a visage of power: the sword that had laid beside her in bed, and Arthur’s gift to her. It could not be denied that it was a beautiful sword— the castle steel was polished and sharp, no doubt Mikken’s handiwork. The silver hilt was shaped into the head of a wolf with black obsidian eyes. But it was more than just beautiful; it was practical as well, built for her. It was light and short enough to carry without imbalance. It was meant for someone quick and small; it was meant for her.

Lyanna had been unsure of what to do with it when Rodrik had handed it to her. To have tossed it aside would have been satisfactory with any other gift from him, but this one was difficult to discard. It was a wonderful sword, and worse, it was one of the greatest nameday gifts she’d ever received. Not even her own brothers had ever thought to gift her with a blade, though she couldn’t even think of anything else she wanted more.

Lyanna fitted the swordbelt around her waist and sheathed the blade. Looking down at the silver wolf’s head filled her with a sudden joy and she bites her lip to keep from smiling too wide.

“It suits you,” Lyla remarked with a smile of her own.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

When she exited her chambers, Beron and Vayon Poole, as well as Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik waited outside her doors. Lyanna nodded to them.

“Good morning men,” she greeted them, and led the sortie down to the Great Hall. Ser Rodrik had cut in ahead of her to announce her. She could hear him from the other room calling out her name and titles— her _current_ name and titles.

“Lyanna Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North,” his voice boomed out. Lyanna found herself not feeling so sad over this; instead, an unexpected feeling of relief washed over her. That was the truth of her situation, called out to a hall of people who did not know how to address their woman king. Now they would know she was no king at all, and she would not have to feel that pinch of pain that came with remembering how she set her crown down at a foreigner’s feet.

Lyanna swept into the hall and seated herself upon her throne, a great pale stone chair situated on a dais above the kneeling crowd gathered. And it was indeed a crowd; the hall was packed with people, bursting to the brim. Lyanna hoped privately that they were not all petitioners.

“Rise,” she called out the way she remembered her father calling out. The gathered got to their feet. “Today I will hear your grievances and deliver justice. I will do my best to judge fairly and swiftly so that we may all rest easy before winter comes. Bring forth the first petitioner.” She hoped her voice exuded the confidence she needed to convince them that she could do any of those things. She knew how she must look to them now; a small woman seated in an overlarge throne was not how anyone pictured their ruler in Winterfell.

It was equally strange being in this chair, though Lyanna had to pretend it was not. The closest she’d come to sitting in it was being perched upon her father’s knee as a child as he sat in it. It had never been her place, and even in play she avoided it, as if just sitting in it would rub off the responsibility of it too. She avoided audiences when she could, though her brothers were made to attend each one. Lyanna would end up sitting so far off from them, as they sat around father in smaller wooden chairs, learning what to say and do. Father would lean over to Brandon to whisper some kingly secret of judgement, and unlike every other secret Lyanna had caught wind of, she never pestered Brandon to hear those passed between him and their father. Now she wish she had.

The first petitioners who stepped forward were a man and a woman, their plain clothes indicating they were smallfolk, and poor ones at that. The man was big and burly, with a thick dark beard and thick arms crossed over his chest. The woman beside him was meek and small by comparison; their dull brown hair was thinning, her cheeks dark and hollow. She held a babe in her arms, not older than a few moon’s turns. The babe was awake and turning its head to look around. Lyanna wanly smiled down to the mother and child, uplifted ever so slightly by the sight.

“My lady,” the man began to speak in a gruff voice that matched his face, “I served at the Trident and received care in the winter town. I was burned from chest to legs and lived.” He paused his speech then, as if waiting for something.

Lyanna nodded, unsure of what response he expected. A thanks, perhaps? She glanced past her shoulder to the Maester, who offered a similar nod.

“I was away from home for some time, m’lady,” the man elected to continue, “and when I returned my wife was with child. But it’s not possible. That is not my child.” He pointed an angry finger at the woman and babe beside him. The woman appeared to cower from it as if it were a raised fist. There was another pause in his speech, and Lyanna waited to hear more. When there was nothing else, she knitted her brows in private confusion.

“Do you have proof?” Lyanna asked simply. It seemed an arbitrary accusation and a waste of time; not to mention that it had hardly been a few minutes in this chair and Lyanna already had to use the privy. If people wanted to come to her with problems, she preferred they be problems she could solve, and quickly.

“The timing doesn’t add up, m’lady,” the man huffed, red-faced. “I was gone three moon’s turns. It happened during that time.”

Lyanna didn’t pause to do any math of any sort. Perhaps if she did, she would figure out that the man was simply paranoid and that the child was his, or that perhaps the woman had been unfaithful. Either way, she didn’t care. Accusations like this were easily thrown but impossible to refute when it was one word against the other. Lyanna bit her tongue to keep from sighing and closed her eyes to hide how she rolled him. When she opened them again, she looked to the woman.

“Is the child his?” Lyanna asked after beating down that last flare of her irritation.

“It is, m’lady,” the woman said in barely above a whisper. “He came to me the night before he left.”

“Tell me how a babe takes ten moons turns to be born!” The man blurted out in return, the exclamation aimed at the woman, who shrunk away from him. “I know it’s not mine! I know my own blood!” Lyanna’s mild irritation curdled to disgust. The man before her was appearing more of an angry brute than a scorned husband; if he was content to scream at his wife before a crowd and his liege lady, then what did the woman endure behind locked doors? Lyanna’s patience for him ran from thin to nonexistent.

“You’ll lower your voice in my hall,” Lyanna warned him sharply, straightening in her chair as she did. The man looked to her as if affronted by this command. “I don’t understand what you want from me. I cannot prove or disprove this for you. She is your wife, and you have chosen not to trust her.”

“I’ll not spend my money and bread on a whore and her bastard,” the man returned through gritted teeth, his hands clenched tight at his side. “I came here because I believe in the law, and the law bid I come to you.”

Lyanna was still confused, and her confusion made her more cross. She had been ready to return fire with sharper words, but Maester Luwin placed a gentle hand on her shoulder that did well to stop her.

“He asks for your permission to kill his wife, princess,” the Maester explained softly and in a quiet voice by her ear. The words shocked her.

“Why doesn’t he just leave her, if he is so sure of her betrayal?” The truth was so surreal she felt like she were a child asking Old Nan for clarification on some gory detail of a story unsuited for children.

“For the sake of his honor. Perhaps he even wishes to marry another. Who can say, princess? He has been through a terrible battle and continues the fight in his own home. It happens more often than you’d like to know.”

Lyanna looked to the woman who trembled as she rocked her babe. She felt more than just pity for her; she felt indignant on her behalf. _Who’s to say how many women her husband had bedded and how many bastards sprung from his loins while he was away? So what if the child is not his? So what if it is?_

Unbidden, her mind went to Arthur, who was travelling somewhere north of her. Arthur, who had received invitations to other beds right under her nose. Arthur, who was so removed out of sight that she had no doubt she was also removed from his mind. Perhaps he was with another woman now, someone to save him from the cold and the loneliness. Perhaps he was turning one down this very moment, instead taking his vows to bed. No matter what he chose, no one would reprimand him for it, or drag him before a court to answer for taking a woman to bed, with no care for whether this slight was imagined or not. He was a man; the world and its women were available to him. The same could not be said for Lyanna, or for the woman before her. It outraged her; it also made her unspeakably sad.

“You took his woman under your protection,” Lyanna said, the words coming out as sharp as a knifepoint. “You vowed to take her as your wife before the gods. Now you claim dishonor with no proof to back your claim. I will not hear it. You are dismissed.”

The man’s face turned a deeper red and he sputtered, speechless. When he moved to take a step forward, a member of her guard pulled him back. The woman watched as he was led away, then looked back to Lyanna with a doleful stare before she took a small step toward her husband.

“I did not dismiss you,” Lyanna said to the woman, who paused midstep. “What is your name?”

“Jana, m’lady,” the woman answered in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Winterfell is in need of a wetnurse, Jana. Could you fill the role?”

Jana appeared to sway on her feet, as if the offer was a gust of some strong wind. She looked slowly between her beet-faced husband, who stood braced by two guards with his fists clenched and his eyes wild, and the child in her arms, quiet and steady. Finally, she looked up to Lyanna and offered an unpracticed curtsey.

“I would be glad to, m’lady,” Jana answered. Lyanna smiled. She motioned to Lyla, who stood off to the side.

“Help her get settled, if you will.”

As her chambermaid led the new wetnurse away, Lyanna settled back into the throne, content with her decision, but also hopeful that no other case brought before her would upset her so.

Unfortunately, holding audience was more emotional than she knew. Though the day dragged on, she had been tested over and over. There was a shocking number of rapes that had occured in the chaos after the battle, men who took advantage of other men being away to practice their depravity. Every man accused chose the Wall over being gelded, a choice that disappointed Lyanna more than it should have, for she would have liked to punish such men, not allow them a chance to redeem their honor. At least the Lord Commander would be satisfied, if she would not be.

The other cases she saw largely centered around arguments over ownership of land, and many creditors who sought to reclaim their money from debtors. Not even these earned her indifference; too often landlords and creditors appeared to prey on the old and the destitute, trying to milk them for every copper. It seemed to her entirely unfair. Yet around the fourth time that Lyanna was prepared to rule in terms favorable for the debtor, Beron had stopped her.

“It is a magnanimous ruling, but you will set a dangerous precedent,” her steward advised her quietly. “If the people in this hall see how easy it is to create debt then have much of it forgiven, then the North will bleed money. I urge you to find a solution that’s more moderate.”

Lyanna had huffed then, unhappy to be tested, but more unhappy at the advice given. Some of the creditors were little better than mosquitos, content to suck the coin out of those around them, and happier still to take them before someone more powerful and make them pay.

“But it isn’t fair. Many of these people have families to support. Many of these people are women who do not have a husband’s wages to help them anymore,” she pointed out to her unflinching steward.

“This is not how you help them, princess. Urge them to find work, and have them work out a repayment plan that fits their wages. Urge them to marry if you must. You cannot force charity, else the wealthy will stop lending.”

“Then I will lend.”

“Do that, and you’ll find yourself with empty coffers before long. Winterfell is not as rich as it used to be, princess. It will take time before we return to the wealth your father was able to maintain.”

Had she been a child, she might have huffed and crossed her arms and stamped her foot. Instead, she grimaced and tried to take the advice given. She found she had to look away from the debtors as she did, too angry at herself and at the state of the North to face the people who were hurt most by it.

Yet this was her father’s justice, she knew. Beron had been his steward; he advised her now the way he has advised her father. No one ever told her that being the ruler in Winterfell meant being hard, and sometimes even being heartless. She did not want to be either.

Her only solace lied in the fact that no other case between husband and wife was brought before her

The audience seemed to finally draw to a close around early evening, when the sun would have begun to dip behind the horizon, had Lyanna had any sight of the sun from within the walls of the castle. She felt considerable relief seeing the hall largely emptied out. The task had made her tired, and though she had called several recesses to relieve her bladder, she had felt the urge to visit the privy all anew.

The last petitioner who stepped forward was a prisoner, chained and flanked by two guards of her own household. The man was dressed in tattered black clothing, with a heavy cloak around his shoulders, black with white fur trim. He had a young face, though the exhaustion that was apparent on his face made him look older. He might have been handsome if cleaned up and put in neater clothing. Lyanna looked down at him with indifference. _Another raper, no doubt._

Ser Rodrik cleared his throat. “This final man brought here is deserter of the Night’s Watch, my lady, caught in a village outside of Moat Cailin,” her master-at-arms informed her and the hall at large. “What shall you do with him?”

This was her first deserter. Lyanna sat up straighter. “The only thing that can be done. He must face execution,” she stated firmly. The law was clear in his case, with no other option but death. “Why did you desert your brothers?” She asked of the ragged looking man before her.

“My family needed me,” the man returned with a raised chin, as if indignant. “My father and my true brothers died on the Trident. My mother and sisters needed me to work and earn money, not freeze on a wall.”

Lyanna bristled. She had heard a myriad of excuses today, some better than others, and this one was certainly compelling. But she knew there could be no mercy or exceptions made; allow one deserter to walk free, and the Wall would soon be drained of all men. “You took a vow. You knew the price you’d pay for desertion. Especially in such a time— winter is coming. Wildings slip past the Wall and terrorize your fellow northmen.” Arthur had reported as much in the few letters he had sent. It was no easy thing to fight back wildlings, and it was made more difficult still by the sudden scarcity of fighting men. The North needed the Night’s Watch now more than ever, and no matter how good the reason, desertion was unacceptable. “You will be executed for your crime.”

“Then you’ve sentenced my mother and sisters as well,” the man returned harshly. Lyanna gripped the arms of her chair, letting the sharpness of the stone dash away whatever sympathy might arise.

“Hold your tongue,” Ser Rodrik warned the deserter. “You will be arrested and placed in a cell until Lord Dayne returns.”

Lyanna blinked, surprised at this development. She had no intention of waiting for Arthur; she was the Lady of Winterfell, and Rickard Stark’s daughter. She knew her duty. _The man who passes the sentence swings the sword,_ her father’s voice rang in her head. This was a lesson even she, Rickard Stark’s little girl, was made to hear.

“Why delay?” She asked her master-at-arms as nonchalantly as she could manage. “I have sentenced this man. I will perform the execution.”

Ser Rodrik, while surprised, lowered his voice to speak to her. “My lady, you do not have to. It is no easy thing to behead a man.” Before she could protest, he hastily added, “I say that not to slight you; there are men stronger than you who cannot manage it.”

Lyanna was determined; she would sooner tie her own noose than to wait for her husband to return to carry out her word. Arthur Dayne could call himself the Lord of Winterfell if he liked, but so long as she was the Stark in Winterfell, she would behave as such. “I said I will execute this man. I want no further protest.” She got to her feet quickly. “If there is no one else to hear, then we’ll do it now. Ready my horse.”

The whole hall seemed to move with her, matching her resolute pace with a bustle of their own. It was unusual, she knew, but nothing had been usual since her brothers left Winterfell. Everything about her life had been reworked to accommodate that void. She was only trying her best to fill it.

To their credit, her men and a retinue of witnesses prepared themselves quickly. The execution would be done where they always had, in the field outside Winterfell so as to keep women and children from having to witness the awful sight. Not even Lyanna could boast that she’d seen her father pass such justice; an eight year old Benjen had been allowed, but she was not, not at any age. It was hardly fair. As a woman flowered she had never fainted once in her life, was not unfamiliar with death, and had seen more blood than any of her brothers had, but Lyanna had been barred from watching a single execution. Now she would carry one out; if she made a mess of it, she had only her father to blame.

There was no snow today, only a brisk, sharp cold and a wind that made the grass sway beneath them. As the man was brought to his knees and a block laid out before him, Lyanna pressed a hand to her belly and stopped to breathe. She didn’t realize how hard her heart was hammering in her chest until she came off her horse; she shut her eyes and concentrated on the cool breeze that danced on her skin. When she opened them again, Ser Rodrik stood between her and the deserter with Ice held out to her with both hands.

Lyanna stared at the greatsword. She had not looked upon it for some time; it had been even longer since she’d last held it. Despite the fact that it now belonged to her, Ice was not a blade made for her. She was too small, her grip too weak. If she swung the blade, she’d fall with it, and likely miss her mark too. Not even Valyrian steel could make up the difference. Ser Rodrik seemed to urge her with his eyes to reconsider. It was too late for that.

Lyanna shook her head and touched his shoulder so that he might step aside. She reached for the sword at her hip, her nameday present, and unsheathed it. The short blade caught the last few rays of sun that peeked over the horizon and gleamed. This was not the time to admire it, however. Her eyes instead met that of the indignant deserter’s; his were dark, angry, in despair. He hated her. Lyanna only felt sorry for him.

“Do you have any final words?” She asked him solemnly. The silence around her made her question boom throughout the field.

“Long live the queen,” the man returned as bitterly as a curse.

Lyanna stepped around to his back and stood with her feet on either side of one of his legs. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled back to expose his neck. Then, without applying any thought, she brought the thin blade across his throat and watched as the blood spilled out onto the block and the grass. She had never done such a thing before, didn’t even know how she did it so quickly and cleanly. Life was pouring out of the man, and she was the one who had opened the spout. Somehow, the thought didn’t scare her at all.

As he slumped to the ground lifeless, something began to stir in her stomach. She thought it would be an embarrassing need to retch, but when that sharp discomfort passed, she realized it was something else entirely. She pressed her free hand against her belly and smiled.

_He’s moving. My child is alive._

“The gods are good,” she breathed. She looked down at the body beneath her. The man’s handsome face was frozen in an expression of defiance. “The gods are fair.”

She looked up and around her. It was hard to tell what her witnesses thought of her, thought of this. The sun was slipping away, leaving their faces darker and darker. She wished she could tell them it was just as strange for her. This was not a king’s justice, after all, or even a queen’s. It was a lady’s justice, the first of its kind in thousands of years of Stark rule.

Yet she could not spare a second longer to think on it. She stood where she was, one hand pressed to her stirring belly, the other wielding a bloody sword, and smiled to herself once more.


	18. Chapter 18 / The Sword of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's progress continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Enjoy!

Arthur Dayne was growing to hate snow. Though his men swore that what had fallen lately was mercifully mild and no trouble at all, he had grown sick of it. Even when it fell in light, feathery sheets, Arthur wanted nothing more than to find a roof to stay under until it all melted away. He recalled bearing it better than this when he and Rhaegar were at the Wall; but then again, they had slept every night in warm beds, and didn’t stay very long at all. Just long enough to peek beyond the northest north, then head home again.

Luckily, Lord Karstark’s castle was not far from here. _Karhold_ , Arthur reminded himself of the holdfast’s name. They needed only to follow the Last River into the forest, a journey Lord Umber had informed him would take only four days. The snow had put them at a week now, but they were close. They had long since left the river behind and trees surrounded them. Arthur could almost feel the warmth of a crackling hearth.

_Bread and salt, and then a fire._

He tried not to fantasize about it, so Arthur put his mind to other thoughts.

_I wonder if I can find a raven that will fly to King’s Landing. Rhaegar would want to know how I fare. Daenerys too, as I left her last letter unanswered--_

“I didn’t know the princess was with child,” Jory said quietly from his horse beside him, breaking from the silence that seemed to have followed him since they left Last Hearth. Arthur blinked at him.

“Now you do.”

He continued in his previous silence for a minute more, then spoke again. “She is a brave woman. She will make a good mother.” Silence again. “I was born at Winterfell, halfway between the births of Eddard and Lyanna. We grew up together. Her brothers were close friends of mine; then I lost my brothers and she lost hers. I remember thinking on the way back to Winterfell, as your prisoner, that I might be so fortunate as to marry her. We could try and fill gaps we had, of three brothers each. With three children, I had hoped,” he paused to look at Arthur, as if to gauge his reaction. Arthur had none to offer, but Jory felt safe enough to continue. “I could protect her and love her in her brothers’ stead. She would have been so easy to love.” The next look Jory paid him was blank. “Fear not. I am neither lovesick nor heartbroken. I do not even consider you a competitor. But she is alone in the world, and I fear for her. Do not give me a reason to believe she should be afraid of you.”

“Your concern is shared among many,” Arthur remarked flatly. The subject of _Rickard Stark’s little girl_ had appeared many times throughout this progress, and he imagined she would only be continued to be mentioned. Lyanna Stark was no little girl, that much was certain, but she was a powerful symbol nonetheless. To them, she was a little girl torn from the men in her life, then deflowered, her virtue plucked violently from her like a rose uprooted. She was her name, and a pretty face, and little else.

It was not Arthur’s task to educate the northmen about the hidden thorns of their new leader, nor did he intend to lay out the details of their marriage to whoever will hear. The lords could believe what they liked, so long as they did not malign Lyanna. He had to admit that there was some benefit to a woman being perceived as meek and impressed upon; the northmen would be quick to defend her in a time of true need, should he ever be unable to do so himself.

The end of their snowy ride was marked by the sound of a rushing river. They followed it down to a clearing, where a castle larger than Last Hearth, but still much smaller than Winterfell stood. Flags flew from masts on the outer walls, fields of black with a white sunburst upon each of them. Just looking upon the gates made Arthur feel warm again. _The Sun of Winter indeed._

Arthur was eager to go inside. He took his horse into a trot toward the oaken gates, which were shut closed before him. Jory rode up beside him and looked up toward the gatekeeper, a hand on his face to block the sun from his eyes.

“Arthur Dayne, Lord of Winterfell seeks Lord Karstark’s audience,” Jory called out. The gatekeeper offered no response, but made a motion to someone below him and began to turn the crank that pulled the doors open. The gates creaked loudly as they did, echoing throughout the forest, and ringing out louder than even the running river beside them. It was the sound of a welcome; or so Arthur thought.

“Do not take a step further, southron lord,” an old man’s voice echoed low throughout the newly revealed courtyard, “or I will avenge my king and my fallen sons in the same swoop.” The words of the threat were plain, if the sword in man’s hand was not.

He was recognizable from his role in Arthur’s wedding; he was the old man that had given Lyanna away, rheumy-eyed and bowed from age. Yet there was strength in him yet, judging by the steadiness of his grip on the sword in his hand. He stood tall and cloaked in furs, with white snowflakes falling into his white hair.

Arthur slowly came down from his horse, and his men followed suit. “I come not for conflict or battle,” he returned with a healthy measure of caution. Though he had room for escape and his men at his back, Arthur was not about to let his apprehension melt away. “It is Lady Lyanna Stark who sends me to your aid.”

“I do not require your aid,” the lord replied. He stepped forward with slow and heavy feet, as if such action demanded immense effort. “I require peace and the forgiveness of my king, both of which can only be achieved with your death by my sword.”

Arthur took pause to study the man, and the scene before him. He had known a dozen duels before coming to these oaken gates, with men young and old, all of them angry. Lord Karstark was older than most, and the paleness of his eyes hinted at a growing blindness. Surrounding him were stone-faced men, their hands on the hilts of their blades, standing at the ready. Then behind them all, on the top stair in the doorway of the castle was a woman— young, cloaked in furs, with one hand on her heart and the other on a swollen belly.

Then Arthur looked back at Lord Karstark, and understood.

“I will take my leave, my lord,” Arthur said with raised hands. “I wish you good fortune, and a mild winter.”

Though it was a surrender, it rankled the old lord. He grimaced and took another step. “It is enough that I gave away Rickard Stark’s girl to an usurper; do not tell me I also gave her away to a coward.” Lord Karstark took yet another step toward him; he could not hide the grunt of effort that accompanied it. “Do not insult me. Raise your sword against me as you did with my king!” Even raising his voice was a difficult endeavor, with how thin his voice sounded.

Arthur shook his head. “The battle is over. I have no desire to fight.” He climbed up into his saddle while his men remained on the ground below, hands hovering over the hilt of their swords. “Should you have a request to make of House Stark, send a raven to Winterfell.”

“Coward,” Lord Karstark hissed. “Craven.”

“It is not craven to want to live to see your son be born,” Arthur returned with a nod towards the woman in the back. “May the gods go with you, my lord.”

He flicked the reins and dug his heels into horse’s sides, then began to ride opposite the flow of the river. It was not long before the sounds of galloping horses followed him, and that Jory Cassel appeared at his side again. This time, he wore an expression of confusion-- though relief was evident as well.

“You did not attempt a duel,” Jory remarked immediately, as if surprised by Arthur’s sudden pacifism.

“He did not want one,” Arthur returned with a shrug. “He wanted death, or to cut me down. I’ll not grant him either.” He wondered if that was cruel in its own way, to deny an old man a glorious death in pursuit of his honor. Arthur chose not see it that way; that might have been preferable had Lord Karstark been just a man with no name, only a warrior’s heart. Lord Karstark was a lord, however, and if Arthur ran a sword through him when he had the choice not to, he was certain to be dead before the day was done. “Did you know he had remarried?”

Jory shook his head. “No. She cannot be a woman of high breeding-- unless she is not his wife at all, but a mistress with a bastard he seeks to claim as his heir. Either way, I do not know who she is.”

“Find out,” Arthur commanded. “The Maester told me that Karstarks are kin to Starks; do they claim that still?”

“Only by word.”

“But they have no claim to Winterfell?”

Jory shook his head again. “Not at all. The blood they share is too old for that.”

Arthur nodded his understanding. “Though you do not believe it, Cassel, there is no one I fear for more than the Lady Lyanna.”

 

* * *

 

There were no proper words to describe the Dreadfort. Not because it was particularly large or particularly impressive, but because it was unlike any castle Arthur had been in before.

He had been robbed of his appetite immediately on entering. It was cold and drafty, as if not a single hearth had been lit, and the halls were dark and silent. Every servant wore an expression of anguish, as if their very lifesblood was being diminished just by walking through the castle. And at the center of it all was Lord Roose Bolton, who Arthur could hardly look at without shivering.

He had the palest eyes Arthur had ever seen, set in a pale face with no color to speak of save for a pair of very red lips. He could have been mistaken as dead, had he not so clearly been alive. Alive, and hale and hearty. It was as if he soaked up the misery of this place and was powerful for it, like a leech that spoke.

Yet he had been among the few to accept Arthur into his hall without resistance. There was no lobbying of barbed words or thinly veiled threats. Only a, “welcome to the Dreadfort, my lord,” before he swept into the castle and bid Arthur to follow.

Dinner was quiet save for the sounds of Lord Bolton comfortably eating. Arthur wished he could follow suit; he had forced down bread and a bit of meat, but could not manage another bite. He tried a gulp of wine instead; and wrinkled his nose at the taste that followed. It was warmed and spiced, with more cinnamon than Arthur liked.

“Do you not like the wine, my lord?” Roose Bolton’s voice was cold steel, but quiet, like the whisper of a dagger. “I have other wines; I’ll have them fetch a Dornish red.”

Before Arthur could open his mouth to protest, a servant already swept off to retrieve a cask of the stuff.

“A pity you did not arrive earlier,” the lord continued in his cool, unsettling voice. “A few days ago there was a miller’s wife who got married. You might have enjoyed her.”

“I do not think so,” Arthur remarked automatically.

“No woman for you but your wife?” Lord Bolton asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “Time may dull that notion, even when she is as pretty as she is. Though I can understand a desire to avoid a bastard mouth to feed; it can become costly.”

“Are you prepared for the coming winter?” Arthur asked, hoping to move the conversation away from this uncomfortable topic.

Roose’s two pale eyes fixed on him for a period of time that could have been seconds, or perhaps hours. Arthur tried not to look away. “Yes,” the lord answered simply. “We are always prepared at the Dreadfort.” His eyes were still leveled on him until something distracted him: a boy, no more than seven or eight, walked into the hall. He had dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that shared the same color as Roose’s, but none of the unnerving iciness. His calm expression and how he carried a book with both hands reminded him of Rhaegar at that age, bookish and placid.

“Meet Domeric, my son,” Roose announced the child. He placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the boy did not pull away. He looked up at Arthur with a question in his eyes, curiosity plain in his features. He was certainly his father’s son in visage, but he lacked what made Arthur want to recoil from his sire.

“Hello, Domeric,” he said with a smile. “I am—“

“Arthur Dayne, Lord of Winterfell,” Domeric interjected quietly. “My father told me. Lord father, I can’t sleep because of the noise.”

 _Noise?_ That was curious— Arthur and his group had been deadly silent, a company as good as corpses.

Roose did not skip a beat. “Then we’ll move you to a room further away from the source for tonight.” A woman immediately appeared at Domeric’s side to lead him away. Before the boy departed, he gave Arthur a sullen look and clutched the book tighter to his chest.

“Good night, my lord,” the boy said before following the woman to what would be his new chambers for tonight.

When Arthur’s gaze had finished following Domeric, he returned to Roose Bolton, who was smiling. There was no warmth in it; on the contrary, it made the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand on end as if he had been prodded with something ice cold.

“Children are finicky, but they are our future,” Roose remarked dryly. “I am rather fond of him.”

The description of “rather fond” seemed better suited to an acquaintance just met and not a man’s own trueborn son. But Arthur would not offer this contention; he was eager to bring an end to dinner and conversation, and to try and sleep tonight.

“Forgive me, but I am tired, my lord,” Arthur announced, standing up swiftly. A chorus of chairs scraping backward followed this, his own men apparently just as anxious to abandon the table.

Roose rose more slowly. “You hardly ate, my lord.”

“Travel shrinks my appetite,” Arthur lied.

“As you wish,” Roose returned with a half shrug. “My servants will show you to your rooms.”

The servants that approached were as pale and tormented in appearance as every other one Arthur had seen, but again, he had no desire to linger and discover why. He allowed himself to be led out of the dining hall and through the castle. The cold was unrelenting even in the heart of it, and even in his chambers, where the hearth had been lit. He wondered if his men felt the same, or if he had simply been chilled down to his bones from the snows he’d been enduring on this journey.

 _What I would give to feel warm again._ Of all the consequences of settling in the North, this had been the one he had given the least amount of thought to. He had never been fond of cold, and even the slightest drop in temperature made him shiver. It was his Dornish blood, he assumed, for Rhaegar had never had a similar problem. _Perhaps I should have agreed to be his Hand,_ Arthur mused, thinking of how a visit to the green south would be a welcome change to the hard and snowy north. Yet he had refused the office for many reasons, among them being family-- the one he would build for himself. _Winterfell is warm,_ he reminded himself, _and it is not too far away._

Arthur did not shrug off his fur cloak before sitting down at the writing desk. He pulled a new piece of paper, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write.

_Lyanna,_

_Snows have grown more frequent since we departed Karhold. The roads are still navigable, and the lords I have met so far promise their taxes have been sent. Expect to see them soon. Lord Karstark turned me away at his gates. We took refuge in smaller vassal houses in between there and Karhold. The Dreadfort asks for no--_

The faint sound of a scream drags his quill away from its place in the letter and leaves a black line trailing off the paper. Arthur brushes off his surprise quickly, and stopped to listen more closely. He sat frozen in place for an indeterminate amount of time, but the noise did not return.

 _Am I hearing things?_ Going mad now would be a terrible inconvenience. He grimaced against his own foolishness; his dread of this place was undoubtedly all in his head. The cold too must be invented, a product of Arthur’s spending too much time trudging through snow and shivering in his tent. Then there was those damned tales-- it had been Maester Luwin who told him the story of Boltons wearing the skins of Stark princes as cloaks those thousands of years ago, and like a child, Arthur found true fear in old history. Roose Bolton was unnerving, perhaps, but anything more was the product of his cold and exhausted mind.

 _I need sleep and a bed,_ he decided. Those two things were luxuries as of late, and he’d be a fool to let them pass him by tonight. The letter could wait until morning.

 

* * *

 

White Harbor reminded him of Dragonstone, if only because of the sea.

He could not say this of Widow’s Watch, where Lady Flint’s castle had been small and unimpressive and the sea had been calm and still. There was life in the water here, evidenced by the sound of crashing waves, and New Castle jutted out of the city as Dragonstone does, its bleached walls almost overwhelming everything surrounding it. Yet despite the comparisons, Arthur felt no nostalgia for the childhood he had on Dragonstone; it simply made him feel old and stuck, like he was being tossed between the waves and flung upon the shore.

“Look,” Jory’s voice called out, pulling his attention away from the sea. “I believe that’s Lord Manderly at the gates.”

Arthur followed his line of sight to a castle outside the city walls; it was clearly an old building, and one that saw little maintenance, but what made it notable was that it was black. It stood out in great contrast against the city’s white walls, white buildings, and white castle. Arthur felt as if he should know its name, but it did not arrive to him, nor did Jory offer one to him. Arthur refocused his attention on his mark, which proved hard to miss: a large man in green sat upon a horse, flanked by another man who was also large and dressed in green. There were other men too, but they dressed in cyan and bore the glint of steel upon them.

As Arthur drew closer, he noted that the men in green were not simply large, but fat-- Lord Wyman Manderly, the oldest of the two men, was also the fattest. The man at his side, whom Arthur assumed was his son, was not as fat as his father, but he seemed well on his way to that achievement. As he neared even closer, he wondered how Lord Manderly’s horse carried him at all.

“Welcome to White Harbor, Lord Dayne,” Lord Manderly’s voice called out to him, loud and booming. He was smiling warmly behind a thick greying beard; there was more hair on his face than there was on his thinning head. “We’ve been awaiting you.”

“My lord,” Arthur called out to him, suspicious of the amiable greeting; he was not prepared to throw his caution down. “I come to you on behalf of Lady Lyanna Stark. I would ask for your bread and salt, and refuge for the night.”

Wyman waved his hand. “Of course, of course. That is what the princess asked of me, and you shall receive it. Meet my son,” he gestured to the fat man in green beside him, “Wylis Manderly, my firstborn and heir.” This man greatly favored his father; his corpulent body aside, he had the same thinning head of hair and thick beard, though his was blonde while his father’s was turning grey. Wylis gave him a cold look, one that could be read as murder. Then, he remembered quickly: Lord Manderly had lost a son on the Trident.

“I am sorry for your loss, my lords,” Arthur offered solemnly.

“I am sure you are,” Lord Manderly returned; though he remained smiling, his voice was acrid. “You’ll find I’m a loyal man. The princess is all that remains of her line, and though it would suit me to have revenge, I will offer you my hospitality because she asked for it. It’s an arrangement you’ve undoubtedly seen many times over on your progress; except, of course, in Karhold.”

 _This is not a man to be underestimated,_ Arthur gathered quickly. He was not aware that anyone knew of the events at Karhold; what else did the lord know?

There were no proper words to exchange at this point; Arthur nodded to Wyman before his eye was once more drawn to the black castle nearby. House Manderly’s sigil flew on the battlements, but this was clearly no fort; it simply wasn’t strong enough to be.

“That is Wolf’s Den,” Wyman Manderly announced. Arthur’s gaze snapped back to him, but he only remained smiling. “It was raised by King Jon Stark thousands of years ago, to defend against sea raiders. When my ancestors were tossed out of the South, we swore an oath to House Stark, and they gifted this castle to us. But as you can see, over the course of time, we outgrew it. Now it is where we keep our prisoners.”

Arthur nodded, secretly appreciative of this explanation. Master Luwin had tried to teach him about the North, but history had been less important than knowing the state of affairs as it were now. Wyman Manderly had given him insight, and something to ask the Maester about when he returned to Winterfell.

“Follow me, my lord, and I will take you to New Castle,” Lord Manderly said before he flicked the reins on his horse. The horse huffed as it turned around, its steps heavy and hooves dragging as it began its trek. It was no easy path either; stairs started from Wolf’s Den and appeared to go uphill and cut far into the heart of the city. Arthur could not help but think that the lord would be better off with a warhorse to carry him around, not this delicate show steed. The stallion he sat on now would be better suited for Lyanna— and the horse would be glad for such a light and competent rider. But it was not Arthur’s place to criticize; he only hoped the castle was closer than it appeared.

“We walk upon Castle Stair, my lord,” Lord Manderly explained, as if reading half of what Arthur was thinking. “This will take us all the way to my castle.”

Once Arthur could stop thinking about the horse’s welfare, he began to look around him, and quickly realized this was the first true city Arthur had seen in the North. Within its white walls were markets, and while the stench of fish overwhelmed the senses, there was much more than fish being sold. There were piles of colorful spices in some stalls and casks of wine in across the spectrum of color, most of which were clearly goods from Dorne or even Essos. The means of acquisition was no mystery; Arthur knew the city was a merchant’s hub, but the sight of many great ships in the harbor confirmed as much.

There was life in the city that Arthur had forgotten existed; people ran back and forth, many carrying goods on their heads or under their arms. Advertisements were shouted in the streets, and when they passed a stall he could catch the sounds of haggling. Even the stone mermaids that lined the stairs seemed to have eyes full of life; they smiled as if glad to be kneeling upon that street, glad to be holding bowls of oil for another thousand years to come.

There was little difference between this city and a city in the south, save for size; White Harbor was smaller. Arthur’s gaze followed the lines of ships and white houses until they settled on something else that would not be out of place in the south, and his heart leapt at the reminder.

He increased his pace and maneuvered himself to Lord Manderly’s side. One of the armored men in cyan reached for his trident, but he was too slow. If Arthur wanted the fat lord killed, he would be dead already.

“My lord, I understand that you have a sept,” Arthur said, ignoring the threat of the trident at his chest.

Lord Manderly was unphased; he waved a hand to the guard beside him, who sheathed his useless weapon. “We do. I am the Shield of the Faith in the north,” he noted with a hint of pride.

Arthur had no clue what that meant, but he did not press the point. “I should like to see it.”

“The sept?” Lord Manderly repeated; Arthur nodded. “If you wish. The path is down this way.”

The horse beneath the lord huffed at this new change of direction, but Arthur hoped it could endure only a little bit longer. He followed Wyman Manderly to the building he had seen in the distance: a domed, seven-sided sept with its walls bleached white to match the city. Arthur climbed down from his horse well before arrival, which imparted the others to do the same. This allowed Wyman Manderly’s horse a little relief, though now it was his master’s huffing that Arthur was subjected to.

Before entering, Arthur turned to his host. “I intend to pray; I will not take long.”

Wyman nodded, red-faced from effort and unable to draw enough breath for a proper response. Arthur would not wait upon him; he pushed the reins of his horse into Jory’s outstretched hand, and moved toward his mark.

There might have been concern for his person in such an exposed place; there had yet been a building that Arthur entered that did not raise his hackles and fill him with paranoia. Yet passing through the doors of the seven-sided sept immediately dashed such fears and replaced it with an immovable calm. It had been so long, too long, since he had entered one, and he had missed it dearly. The seven walls of this sept were not white like its exterior, but instead painted a soft blue like the sea outside. Seven tall statues stood in front of windows of stained-glass, their faces mottled with the colors the light shined upon them. Had he more time, he might have gladly spent hours on his knees, if only to take advantage of the rare opportunity of prayer in a sept this far north.  For now, he would breathe a quick prayer, and perhaps return later for better reverence.

He knew who he would to pray to. Arthur walked across the sept to that statue of a woman, whose hair was veiled and her arms open. He shrugged off Dawn and laid it down at her feet before he went to his knees before her.

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,” Arthur opened the prayer, “extend your protection to my family in Winterfell. Give them warmth in the coming days. They will need it. They are unused to this land and far from the gods, though I know your sight reaches even this far.” Perhaps they could not pray to statues everyday, but the gods transcended stone; they existed in everything, were everywhere, no matter how much snow fell or how few believers there were to serve. “I thank you again for the gift you have given my wife and I. Watch over her, and give her grace and strength till the end, and after.” He wondered if he should pray to be back to her well before the end, wondered if it would be sinful to pray that he might hold her while she was still full with child. He concluded swiftly that if it required wondering, then it did not have a place in prayer. “I have no offering but coin for you. Accept it now if you will, and I swear I will return with flowers and a candle.”

He reached into the purse at his belt and placed a gold dragon between her feet. Then he rose to his feet, picking up Dawn along the way. He pulled his gaze away from the Mother to look upon the other gods he had known his whole life. The Father, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, the Warrior, and even the Stranger-- he had prayed to all of them at different times in his life, and some more than others. The Warrior had heard his voice the most, in septs and in camps and upon battlefields. Arthur had always felt favored by him, for there could be no earthly reason for why he had survived every battle that had come his way. His men would blaspheme and call him the Warrior embodied, but since he had put down his sword-- no, since he had gotten married, he found himself wanting to be more like the Father.

 _The Father is a natural lord, a good father, a gentle husband,_ Arthur thought. _He is just and fair and wise in all things, and so I must be._

But there was no time for further prayer. He returned outside to his waiting company. As Lord Manderly struggled to climb back onto his horse, Jory Cassel pinned Arthur with a suspicious glance.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, taking the proffered reins from his hand.

“Nothing,” Jory returned unconvincingly. Arthur was too at ease to interrogate him, but he soon found he didn’t need to. “You look glad, is all.”

“I am glad,” Arthur said. “I was told Merman’s Court is a sight to behold,” _by Lyanna,_ he added internally, “I am eager to see if that’s true.”

“We’ll see, if we arrive there,” Jory returned in a low voice, his eyes darting toward the still-struggling Wyman Manderly, now being pushed up into his saddle by half his guard.

Arthur bit down on his smile, feeling too light to even remember to feel sorry for the poor horse.

 

* * *

 

The snow had returned with a vengeance since they had left White Harbor. It took only a day of riding for Arthur to find himself missing the milder seaside climate of that great white city. Now instead of salty sea air and a crisp breeze, he smelled nothing but the cold, felt nothing but the cold, and saw nothing but the cold. Moat Cailin had been the only true respite between White Harbor and Barrowton; they had lit a fire in the Gatehouse Tower, the only tower with intact walls and a closed roof, and slept around it, huddled together like children. Yet the it wasn’t the cold alone that made sleep difficult to come back; Moat Cailin had felt like a home to ghosts, and he found himself as restless as they were.

Seven days later, Arthur and his entourage had arrived in Barrowton. It reminded him a little of White Harbor, but instead of a city, this was merely a small town, and it was not as alive nor as lovely. Instead of the sea, there were twin rivers surrounding it, and instead of pale stone, there was dark wood. Nevertheless, just like White Harbor, there was a castle at the center of it all, perched atop a high hill. This was called Barrow Hall, and it was clearly much older than the pristine New Castle.

Maester Luwin had explained to him that House Dustin had been thrown into great disarray after the Trident; all of its menfolk had perished in the battle, leaving behind the unlikeliest ruler: Lord Dustin’s newlywed wife, Barbrey Ryswell. Now, he was told, she continued to go by Barbrey Dustin to cement her claim, despite the fact that she had produced no heirs in the short time she was married. It was an unusual arrangement, but Arthur had long since learned that ‘unusual’ has become rather common in the north. One had only to look at Winterfell and its rulers to gather as much.

There was no one awaiting them at the walls, so they pressed onward into town, following the path to the castle. They were paid little mind as they passed by, and there were few enough people in the streets. Chimneys puffed out dark smoke all around; nearly everyone had escaped the snow, and those loitering about clearly had intentions to arrive at a warm place indoors.

“The Dustins were a very old house,” Jory said from beside him, not having to raise his voice above a whisper when all they heard was the whistling wind and the sound of hooves. “Very loyal, and fierce warriors. They were kings once, too.”

 _Kings until the Starks struck them down and made them kneel,_ Arthur added privately. Maester Luwin had shared many such stories of the Starks killing dissenting kings and princes and stripping the submissive of their lands, titles, and crowns many thousands of years ago. He had found a dark amusement in those tales; it was not unlike what Rhaegar had done less than a year ago, but while the Starks were loved and respected, the Targaryens were seen as hateful invaders. Arthur owed the difference to the passage of time, but he knew better than to draw such a comparison out loud, especially not to Lyanna. He could almost imagine being bold enough to explain to Lyanna how alike the Stark kings of old were to the dragon king now; she had not killed him yet, but that surely would be enough to encourage her to do so.

The dark thought made him chuckle nonetheless. _Small, but fierce._

The gates to Barrow Hall opened for them. The castle upon the hill was as wooden as the rest of the town, and Arthur wondered how such a place could defend itself once the town’s walls were breached. Or even well before that— dragons would so easily torch such a castle, and it would burn before an army could arrive to claim it. There was no fear of that in Winterfell, with great stone walls that could hold up in any siege; that had been part of the reason that Rhaegar hoped for a quick surrender. Though Arthur supposed that the Dustins had not had to worry about siege or dragons for thousands of years; wood was easier to come by than stone, after all.

They entered into a near empty hall, populated only by a few servants passing through. There was a great wooden chair on a dais, but no occupant. The relief at escaping the snow was soon replaced with apprehension. He stiffened as the doors behind them closed.

“We’ve come to speak with Lady Dustin!” Jory shouted into the hall, his voice echoing. They waited a minute longer, waiting for those words to successfully summon someone. Finally, a man appeared from a hall behind the dais. He was thin and bald and took quick, light steps as he walked up to them. He was dressed in fine leathers and bore an expression of indifference.

“The lady would speak to you alone,” the man announced in a reedy voice, his eyes fixed on only Arthur.

“Would the lady not greet us in her own hall?” Jory asked.

“She would not,” the man returned flatly. “She seeks to parley and be rid of you.”

Before Jory could protest, Arthur nodded his consent. “I will go to her,” he said.

“I hope you do not underestimate her because she is a woman,” Jory warned him in a whisper, punctuated with a frown. “She could be hiding behind assassins.”

“Then you will stay outside and listen for those assassins,” Arthur said. “Show me the way.”

Arthur was led through the dimly lit hall to a room behind it. Jory gave him one last glare before he entered what appeared to be a solar, also dimly lit. Only a candle illuminated the space, and not very well. Behind the desk sat a woman— Lady Dustin, he supposed. She wore her black hair in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Candlelight danced off her high cheekbones and brightened her dark, sharp eyes. Arthur realized she was very pretty despite the grimace that twisted her full lips, despite the hate that so clearly rolled off her in waves.

Her hands were folded atop the desk, and he could see no other weaponry around here. Unless the assassin was invisible, there was no other guard here. Arthur took a little ease from that.

“What do you want?” The woman demanded sharply. She had a low voice that might have been pleasant had she not spoke as harshly as she just did.

“I’ve come to hear what House Stark might do—“

“I don’t want anything from House Stark,” the woman cut in sharply. “They have only ever taken from me.”

Arthur was taken aback by the interruption, but he did not let it show. “Winter is coming—“

“It’s here. A white raven arrived this morning.” Her scowl somehow grew deeper. “So _Lady_ Lyanna Stark sends her dog only to offer me things I don’t want and tell me things I already know?”

Arthur let the insult roll off. “She only wishes to provide.”

The woman scoffed. “She is a clueless child who was never meant to have the seat she has. She cannot give me anything, nor would I accept anything from her. She is weak where her brother was strong.” There was emotion there at the mention of Brandon Stark-- sorrow tinged with rage tinged with something softer, something she did not mean to betray. “He died for House Stark, as my husband did. Yet as soon as her name was on the line, Lyanna Stark only too quickly spread her legs for a southron bastard. Brandon Stark would have killed her, then you, if he had lived to see it come to pass.” She tilted her chin up indignantly.

“You cannot know the position she was put in. She had no choice,” Arthur returned at first chance, unwilling to let Lyanna be maligned.

“Nor I, when my father wed me to Willam, but Willam did not kill my brother.” She quickly rose to her feet, her hands now splayed out with her fingertips pressed upon the desk. “I will not find myself owing you or Lyanna Stark a single thing, not when I am owed so much.”

“I am not offering you a debt.”

“You cannot offer me a single thing, southron lord,” she replied sharply. “Unless you can find my husband’s bones and give them to me. Unless you could make me a Stark, like I was once promised.” She pursed her lips into an unfriendly smile. “I almost pity you, being made a king of the north without the Stark name to lift you up. Did you wrong your brother in some way, to give you such a curse? Or were you only interested in fucking Brandon Stark’s precious little sister, so you might kill him a second time?”

Arthur balled a fist at his side. “I am through speaking with you,” he said in a low voice, still steady despite his building temper. “Know that I made my offer, and you refused it.”

She was smiling that unkind smile still. “There is a rage inside you, bastard. Me too.” She lowered herself back into her seat and clasped her hands as before. “You may have your food and respite from the cold tonight, but I want you gone by dawn.”

Pride might have demanded he refused this, as she had refused him. But Arthur had men following him who had suffered enough cold and tasteless food to earn them this brief respite. Thus, he let his pride go, as he had many times before.

He gave the Lady Dustin a stiff nod before exiting her solar. Jory paid him an inquisitive look on his return, but Arthur had no intention of rehashing the events prior.

“We leave at first light,” Arthur announced stiffly. “When we do, we must be prepared. Winter is here.”

“So soon?” Jory asked with a hint of worry. “Our progress is not yet finished.”

“We will finish it.”

“My lord, if we are caught out in a storm--”

“We are more than halfway through, and winter has only just begun. We will endure it,” Arthur added with a tone of finality. He knew he was hard-eyed and scowling despite his effort to conceal his upset, knew he made a fearsome sight when he was like this. It was not his intention to lead by fear, not when he felt fear himself. He exhaled and looked away from his men. “I know I am not the man you hoped to call your liege lord, nor am I the man you wanted to lead you on this progress. I ask you do it not for me, but for your princess.”

It felt childish to stalk off to his chambers afterwards, but there was nothing else to say. They had all committed to this task, and at least Arthur saw the importance of it. He was the Lord of Winterfell, whether he or anyone else liked it; he had no choice but to learn from his wife, the woman with the name everyone loved and desired, and if his wife found this progress important, then he would see it through until the very end. Jeers, scowls, ‘bastard’, ‘southron lord’-- he had heard worse.

 _I cannot make them love me,_ Arthur told himself as he closed the door behind him, _but I will do my duty, because it is my duty._

Barbrey Dustin called it a curse, to have Winterfell’s seat without the Stark name. Perhaps she was right; perhaps Rhaegar was punishing him for refusing to be his Hand. Or perhaps he saw the difficulty in this task, and knew that Arthur was capable enough to handle it. It did not matter either way. These were his people now; he would serve them, even if they did not want to be served. He would do it because of who he married, and for what she carried inside her now.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna seeks out her mother. The inevitable arrives in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Instead of helping her get dressed, Lyla surprised her one morning with two large wooden chests, carried into her room by men well-trained enough to look away from their half-dressed lady as she sat in bed with furs pulled up to her neck.

“What are those?” Lyanna asked, caught somewhere between curiosity and confusion.

“Chests of clothing, your grace. Your queen mother’s clothing, among them gowns she wore when she was with child.” The woman gingerly brushed away a layer of dust on one of the chests. “I did not know Queen Lyarra, but I thought since she was your mother that you and her might have similar measurements.”

Confusion gave way to surprise. She had not even been aware that her mother’s clothing still existed, had never given the idea a single thought. Perhaps that was simply because Lyanna cared little for fashion, cared even less now as her body felt like it was growing fuller and more foreign. Still, it was true that some of Lyanna’s gowns were growing a little too tight around the middle, and with it becoming too cold for summer gowns, she knew her winter gowns would soon be far too small. Her shifts were already tight around the middle, and even began to show some strain in the chest. She was gradually being inflated, and she would soon be in desperate need for alterations and entirely new gowns. Her chambermaid must have noticed the discrepancies in her clothing when she helped her dress, and acted quicker than even Lyanna could manage.

“That is very thoughtful, Lyla,” Lyanna remarked, truly touched. “Thank you.”

As Lyanna got out of bed, she quickly became more conscious of the fact that this was more than just clothes. This was her  _ mother’s _ clothes, the mother she knew so little about. She kneeled before the first chest. It was clearly older than even her mother, for its dark wood had tarnished brass hardware. She undid the clasps that kept it closed and opened the lid; it creaked loudly as it revealed its contents. There was, predictably, dresses that filled it to the brim. Lyanna removed the one on top, a heavy blue and cream winter gown, and stared at it, transfixed. It was only a gown, with no special adornments, but...  _ It’s my mother’s gown, _ she reminded herself. It was a piece of her mother between her hands.

Without thinking, Lyanna pushed it to her face and breathed in the smell of it. It smelled of the stale air of the inside of the chest— and a little bit of something else, something a little like lavender. It was no doubt wishful thinking, a projection of what she wanted to smell. Nevertheless, she took a brief comfort in it, glad enough to be this close to her.

She sifted through other gowns trying to determine what might fit her. Her mother had clearly been a slender woman and taller than she, but she had also died a woman who gave birth to four children. Some of the gowns looked like they would be too big in the chest and the hips, though Lyanna imagined she would fit in them in time. What she had difficulty determining, however, was what dresses would accommodate her growing belly. She turned to Lyla and posed the question.

“I think those gowns will have a higher waist,” the chambermaid offered as more of a question than an answer. It sounded right to Lyanna— but she would have to try each one on and see. “Do you want me to fetch the seamstresses to measure you for gowns, your grace?” Lyla offered dutifully. 

Lyanna considered the question. Never in her life had Lyanna wanted new gowns, and now before her were plenty of gowns that would do just as well with a few fixes. What she would have liked was new trousers to fit over the cumbersome belly she would soon have. She did not even need new tunics; she could easily borrow overlarge ones that had belonged to her brothers.

“I think I will try a few of these on to see what needs to be changed for them to fit me,” Lyanna said, reaching a decision. “I’ll just need them to alter them for me.”

Lyla offered a curtsey. “I’ll fetch them now, your grace.”

The woman scurried off before she could protest. Lyanna was not particularly eager to be measured and poked with pins right now; she sighed as she opened the second chest. In there were some more gowns and dresses, followed by layers of shoes and stockings and nightgowns. Lyanna slipped on a shoe to see if her mother’s would fit, but found they were too big for her feet. She was prepared to close the chest before she noticed more cloth underneath. She moved the shoes to the side and pulled at the item. Between her hands was a tunic, small enough to inform her that they were either for a small man or an average woman. Beneath it were more tunics, and then trousers. They must have belonged to her mother, for there was no other reason for them to be in there. But it surprised her nonetheless.

_ Was mother like me? _ She wondered, fascinated by those simple clothes before her.  _ Did she like to ride and carry swords and dress as she wished?  _ There was precious little to confirm the former two, especially since she did not remember her mother at all. Those who did remember her would be her older brothers, who were beyond asking, and the servants at Winterfell who had been here the longest.

_ Old Nan might be able to tell me, _ Lyanna realized with a pinch of excitement. The old woman still loved to tell stories; if she had some of her mother, Lyanna wanted to hear them.

She would not wait for Lyla to return to dress her. She drew her nightgown over her head, one of the few articles of clothing big enough to fit her with room to spare, and picked the largest shift she could see from the chest at her feet. It was still a little too large, but that only meant that there was finally room to breathe. She withdrew a grey velvet winter gown with a high waist and fastenings in the front and slipped into it feet first. The gown was too long and pooled at her feet, but in regards to the fit, the chambermaid’s guess was a good one-- the waist stopped below her breasts and allowed the skirt to drape over her burgeoning belly. It was thick enough to where it almost hid it entirely, provided that Lyanna drew no attention to it. Lately she had taken to the maternal instinct of resting a hand upon her middle when it was idle. The instinct was ever harder to resist when her babe moved around inside her; every time she found herself taking pause to follow his movements with her hand, as enchanted by it now as she had been when she first felt him quicken.

Once she had slipped on shoes, she left her bedchambers, not even pausing to mind her hair in the mirror beforehand. While Old Nan’s room was not in her hallway, they were close enough-- just around the corner, a place of honor for the woman who had done so much for her house. She felt like a child as she rounded that corner, with her hair tangled and her stockinged feet slipping out of her shoes, eager to go find Old Nan so that she might hear a story her brothers hadn’t heard yet. The door to the woman’s bedchamber was ajar, which was not unusual, as it was a sign of welcome for whatever child wanted to slip inside and hear a story.

When Lyanna pushed open the door, she stopped in her tracks. On the floor in front of Old Nan were two people, one taller than the other— Allyria and Ali, their legs crossed and attention on the old woman in her rocking chair. They turned their heads in unison upon her entry.

“Little princess,” Old Nan said from her chair. “You’re in time to catch the end of this tale.”

The two pairs of inquisitive eyes made her uneasy. Lyanna’s discomfort around Arthur’s siblings had yet to pass, and she found herself infrequently in their company ever since Arthur had left. The riding lessons she had promised Allyria had been few before the Maester pleaded with her to stop. Ordinarily, such a plea would be ignored, for Lyanna was more than a capable rider and hadn’t been thrown off a horse in years. However, that was a risk Lyanna was not stupid enough to take with a child in her. Thus, Lyanna saw very little of the Dayne siblings, and they minded themselves without her.

“That’s alright,” Lyanna returned, her excitement deflated. “I’ll come back a different time.”

It was then that Lyanna noticed a fourth person who emerged from a shadowy corner of the room with a book between her hands. Ashara appeared to her as lovely and graceful as ever, complete with that smile that never seemed to leave her face. That smile had been particularly difficult to look upon in her earlier months, when Lyanna felt sick all day and nothing would lift her spirits. Now that smile was more tolerable, but not what Lyanna had been searching for when she entered this room.

“Did you need to speak with her? I can make Allyria and Ali leave,” Ashara whispered once she had closed the gap.

Lyanna shook her head, not selfish enough to take Old Nan away from them. “It’s not important. I’ll ask her later.” That first part was a lie-- it was important. It felt like the most important thing in the world, to ask Old Nan if her mother had been like her, wolf-blooded and wild and everything her father had hated. 

“Do you have some time to spare?”

Lyanna shrugged her nonchalance, but struggled to think of an excuse to be left alone. “I’m meant to be fitted for new clothes, but…”

“You don’t want to?” Ashara guessed.

Lyanna sighed. “I must. Everything I have is too small now.”

“This fits well,” Ashara pointed out as she pinched the fabric of Lyanna’s sleeve between her fingers.

“It was my mother’s,” Lyanna admitted, almost marveling at how strange those words felt like in her mouth. “Lyla brought me chests of my mother’s clothing.”

Ashara nodded, then looped an arm through hers. “I wouldn’t mind seeing those clothes, if you would show me.”

There was no point in protesting; Ashara’s presence was calming and reassuring, and a request from her lips was hard to resist. Feeling defeated, Lyanna led her back to her bedchambers, which were still blessedly devoid of seamstresses. Upon entering, Ashara drew away from her and gently set down the book she was carrying upon the nearby vanity. She then kneeled in front of the first chest and glided a hand over the wood.

“May I?” She asked. Lyanna nodded, and watched from the door as Ashara carefully opened the first chest and began to sift through gowns. She handled each one with great care, pulling them out slowly and folding the pieces before returning them. Halfway through, she stopped, folded her hands in her lap and stared into the chest, motionless and silent. Lyanna inched toward the woman, curious to see if something unusual had caught her attention, something Lyanna had missed. There was nothing that she could see. Curiosity gave way to a hint of worry; Lyanna touched her shoulder, hoping to draw her attention. Ashara quickly turn her head to look up at her; she seemed startled, as if woken from a dream, before her face slipped into its usual smile. But this was not the sunny smile that Lyanna was used to seeing; it was sadder, more muted.

“Did you find it difficult, growing up without a mother?” The question her goodsister chose to ask took Lyanna aback. It surprised her to have the topic broached by someone she still considered to be a stranger, and she almost considered refusing to respond. When emotion gave way to some reason, she recalled that the woman before her had a most unusual mother, and by Arthur’s account, one that disappeared for years at a time. Perhaps she knew something of absent mothers, though Lyanna imagined that one that was absent by choice was more difficult to bear than one that made no such choice.

“Not while I was growing up,” Lyanna admitted stiffly, still trying to find a measure of ease in this uncharted topic. “I find it difficult now, though.”

Ashara nodded. “I know,” she said softly. “As strange as it may sound, I hardly knew my mother. She came and went as she pleased, and only ever stayed for a few months at a time. I cannot say she raised me, or any of us. She took the greatest interest in Arthur, to train him to be a warrior like her. She did little more than that.”

The way Ashara spoke, it sounded as if she had been wanting to tell her-- or someone else --that for some time. As unexpected as this sudden confession was, Lyanna could not help but have her interest piqued by the mysterious woman the Daynes called mother. According to Arthur, Alia Dayne had been a warrior, a traveller, a seeker, but hardly a mother. Stranger still was the situation between the parents; after all, the Daynes’ father had a wife. What did she think of this arrangement? Curiosity got the best of Lyanna; she kneeled beside Ashara and met her eye.

“Did your father’s wife approve of this… relationship?” Lyanna settled on that word, though it did not encompass its many facets.

Ashara shook her head. “There was little she could do, about her or us. My father and his lady wife did not love each other; they were brother and sister, not even friends before they were made to marry. But Lady Rhaella did not appreciate the public slight.” Ashara went silent for a little, as if mulling something over. Lyanna remained silent as well, in hopes of hearing more. “My father was a different man around my mother,” she confessed in a small voice. “With her, he was Aerys Targaryen-- charming, a gentleman, bright, gentle, and even kind. When she was gone, we were left with our father. My heart broke for the Lady Rhaella, to speak the truth. She bore the worst of him while my mother enjoyed the best; it was not fair at all.” Ashara rolled her shoulders, as if trying to shake off the sorrow. “My father would not be rid of us, perhaps because he knew my mother would disapprove of shunting us off, and Lady Rhaella tolerated us quietly. I can count on one hand the number of times she spoke to me. She was not cruel, but she was not our mother. She had no interest in becoming our mother, either.”

“That was her right, wasn’t it? She did not have to be a mother to her husband’s bastards,” Lyanna said reflexively, drawing upon her own feelings on the matter. If a husband of hers flaunted his mistress  _ and _ kept his bastards in sight, then Lyanna would swiftly distance herself from all parties involved. Yet as soon as she had said it, she realized how callous it might sound to Ashara, who was indeed one of the bastards involved. Embarrassed, Lyanna’s face grew warm and she began to falter. “I mean-- It is a matter of respect and, and dignity…”

Ashara smiled softly. “I understand,” she said with more kindness than what was deserved. “It was not her duty. Her duty was to her own children, and I cannot blame her for that. I do not blame her for it. We were my parents’ duty, and I fear neither one of them were up to the task.”

“I’m sorry,” Lyanna said sheepishly. “For them, and for myself.”

“I am sorry too,” Ashara returned. 

“I never really knew my mother either,” Lyanna blurted out, trying to even the scales. “Well-- I knew her, but I don’t remember her. I was five when she died. I only know her face by portraits.” It was a long face, with grey eyes and dark hair like hers. She had been a Stark, after all. “I suppose that explains why I am the way I am.”

Ashara quirked up a dark brow. “What do you mean?”

Lyanna shrugged. “I grew up surrounded by men. My father tried to make a lady of me, but by the time my mother had died Brandon had already put me in a saddle and placed a wooden sword in my hand-- and I fear very little has changed since.” She could not help but crack a smile at this, amused by this realization. The smile faded as her mind circled back to the mother she hardly knew, and she was overcome by that empty longing for her she had felt the night before Arthur left. “I do wish I knew my mother, though. To have someone to learn from. I feel I am going into motherhood blind.”

“Many mothers do, but they make up for it in bravery. You are the bravest woman I know, Lyanna Stark. I think you will be wonderful.”

Lyanna looked at her, mouth agape at the sudden-- but undoubtedly sincere --compliment. “I do not think I am brave,” Lyanna admitted in a small voice, the very same that spoke in her head when it was filled with doubt.

Ashara seemed equally surprised to hear those words. “I cannot imagine myself in your place for a second,” she said in a small voice of her own. “To have my siblings killed, their bodies brought for me to bury, to be made to marry the one who drove a sword through my eldest brother’s heart--” Her voice grew thick with emotion, and it seemed for a moment that she might cry. “I could not bear it with an ounce of grace. I could not go on. I do not know how you did.”

Lyanna looked away from Ashara, out the window. Snow was falling, white against a pale grey sky. “I had to go on,” Lyanna said. “I could not let what my brothers died for die with them. I may never be able to avenge them-- but I can live, to honor their memories, and remember them to all who will listen. Through me, they will live forever.”

That burgeoning instinct to touch her growing middle made itself known. It was true, the future of House Stark was within her, but the way she had said it made it sound more noble and graceful than the truth. She had secured the future of her house first by kneeling, then by spreading her legs. It had not been honorable, or even decent, but she did it because life as a Stark was better than death as a Stark. Or at least, that was what she told herself.

Lyanna chuckled, though she found no true humor in her situation. “The kings who came before me would balk to know that I bought the future of their house through submission and my maidenhead, though they had no doubt traded their own daughters’ maidenheads for less. That does not change the fact that I carry their legacy in my belly and between my thighs.” If Ashara was shocked by the frankness of her speech, she made no such indication. “I would do it again, you know. I would have fucked Rhaegar Targaryen and all of his siblings and his dragons too if it meant keeping my name. It was all I had left. It  _ is _ all I have left, until the babe comes along.”

“Honor is a luxury for men,” Ashara returned quietly. “Women do what they must.”

“Yes,” Lyanna agreed with a private smile. “I suppose I should just consider myself lucky that I only had to go to bed with your brother.” Not that it felt like a burden as of late; ever since her morning sicknesses had passed, she had found herself hungry for a man’s touch. Yet she was not wanton enough to seek out just any man, nor was she satisfied through her own means. She wanted Arthur, who was familiar enough and bound to her, who knew how to please her-- but she would not admit that to anyone, and certainly to not his dear sister.

“He will be good to you both,” Ashara said as her hand closed over Lyanna’s on her belly. “I know it.”

Lyanna did not have a chance to respond before the door to her bedchambers opened. Lyla was at the helm of a vanguard of seamstresses, armed with baskets of tools and fabric. Ashara rose to her feet and extended a hand out to Lyanna; she took it gratefully and rose after her.

“Has the lady had her breakfast yet?” Ashara asked immediately, though the question was entirely out of place. Lyanna blinked at her, then looked back to Lyla. The chambermaid dipped into a frantic curtsey thereafter.

“Forgive me. I will go fetch it now,” Lyla said, still locked in a curtsey.

“You cannot let her miss meals, Lyla,” Ashara admonished her, if it could be called admonishment. It was the gentle scolding of a concerned mother, one Lyanna knew she could not emulate if she tried for a hundred years. “Breakfast surpasses alterations in importance.”

“Right away, my lady,” Lyla said before deepening her curtsey for a second longer, then scurrying out the door. The seamstresses looked on after her, then bowed out of the room, sensing that their services were not in need yet.

“She was excited to show me the clothes,” Lyanna offered to Ashara as an excuse for her sincere chambermaid. Ashara shook her head, clearly not fond of the excuse.

“I was ravenous when I was with child. Are you not hungry?”

Lyanna considered it for a moment. As if sentient, her stomach growled in response.

Ashara smiled and squeezed her hand. “I thought as much. Shall I leave you to eat?”

“You may stay,” Lyanna replied automatically. “If you want,” she added, trying to feign nonchalance.

“I would like to stay.” The smile had reached Ashara’s eyes now, and the sorrow from before was gone. It was difficult to explain why her presence felt so warm. Lyanna had spent precious little time with other women, and her friends growing up had been her brothers, stableboys, and the children of servants. The older women in her life had been Old Nan and those tasked with seeing her dressed and clean. A friendship with Ashara was nothing like those, and Ashara was nothing like those women. Yet, perhaps this was what Lyanna needed-- a woman to confide in.

Lyanna nodded and motioned for her to join her on the bed. She wondered if Ashara had eaten yet; if not, she would gladly share.

 

* * *

 

It was dark on the morning that she woke up and thought of Arthur.

She had been thinking of him often lately, but for purposes beyond concern. Too often she went to bed with an ache between her legs and a hunger for a touch that wasn’t her own. She would dream of his nude form as she remembered it, broad and strong and scarred, embracing her until she woke drenched in sweat and panting. But that was not how she rose today. Today, she woke up chilled to her very bones.

There was snow outside, but that was not the cause of her chill, unless the hot springs had dried up overnight. She feared for a moment that there might be something wrong with her, wrong with the babe inside her. She pressed a hand between her legs, but when she slipped it back into view, there was no blood to be seen. None of this relieved her. Her mind circled back to the name that had awoken her:  _ Arthur _ .

Lyanna clambered out of bed, nearly tripping over her stockings as she hurried to the window. It was snow— and it was falling hard and fast. Dark clouds blocked out the sun. Wind howled through the trees and whistled around the corners of the castle. This was not the sort of snow children played in; it was a storm, and everyone who could be indoors surely was.

That only meant one thing.

She helped herself into the first dress she could find— a thick wool gown that had been her mother’s, recently altered to fit her. She draped a fur cloak around her shoulders and stuffed a pair of gloves into a pocket on the inside of it. She slipped on boots and tied her stockings. The weather outside was clearly not one worth underestimating.

In the hallway outside her chambers, Lyanna was surprised to find all three Dayne siblings standing by, dressed in heavy furs. Ashara’s expression was one of concern; when she began to follow her silently, Lyanna did not protest.

They did not make it far; before they reached the door that led out into the courtyard, Maester Luwin appeared in their path, his cloak coated in a layer of snow. Snowflakes were melting in his brows, the white not out of place in his grey hair. He bowed low, and spoke the words she feared most.

“Winter is here. A white raven arrived from the citadel early this morning, right before the snows.”

“No.” The word jumped desperately out of her mouth before she could pause to think. “Arthur and my men are still traveling. If they are caught in a storm…” Her heart had been thumping against her chest at pace of a horse’s gallop; she could hear it in her ears.

“When was the last time that he wrote?” The Maester asked calmly, drawing her mind away from the dark path she almost walked upon.

Lyanna paused to rack her brain. “I received a raven when he was at the Dreadfort, but that was a fortnight ago. He made no mention of returning.” In a lighter mood, she might have made a jape on how short and simple her husband’s letters were. They were like field reports meant for a commander to read, and would not be out of place in a tent in an army camp.

“If the snows are too heavy, then he will not be able to send another raven for some time. We can only hope that he is on his way to Winterfell, and somewhere safe.”

This was not enough to make her panic subside, until a new realization washed over her.  _ If the cold takes him, then Rhaegar cannot call it murder. It would be an act of the gods, and I cannot be blamed for that.  _ Despite this, she was chilled, frozen in a new and different fear.  _ My men travel with him, Jory among them. If the cold takes Arthur, could it take them as well? _

Her men were made of harder stuff, she told herself. They were northmen born and bred in winter, no strangers to the cold. Yet Lyanna knew better, knew from Old Nan’s stories that snow could kill strong young men as swiftly as it killed the old and frail.

If Arthur died out there, what would it mean for her? She pressed a hand to her middle and wondered. She had put her faith in the child being a boy; she prayed on it, begged for it. Her son would be born without a father, but that meant little. Wasn’t it a mother’s love that was strongest, most important? Or would the child look for his father in portraits and in chests of clothing, wondering what he was like, what he would tell him if he were still alive?

When she shook off her petrification, she looked back to Ashara Dayne, whose face had lost all of its color. It was then that guilt gnawed at her.  _ I am selfish, _ she admonished herself,  _ but they will lose only one brother, while I lost all three. _

It was not right-- once, it would have been so easy, so natural to pray for his death, pray that he would give her the child she wanted and disappear. Now that the reality was close at hand, she hesitated to rejoice in it. She wondered what it was exactly that brought on such a change, and found it easiest to blame the child he had put inside her.

_ He has his blood. When he lives, he may have his eyes and mouth and hair as well. I can never truly be rid of Arthur Dayne. _

That was an intended part of the curse Rhaegar Targaryen had placed upon her back. A Stark woman alone, her brothers killed, a man of his choosing in her bed, that man’s child in her womb-- no matter what his original plan was, this had all played out beautifully for Rhaegar, and miserably for Lyanna.

Yet if winter were to take her unwanted husband, then perhaps that was justice, the north exacting its own bloodless revenge. If the north spared him, then it was not his time to die. Lyanna would not pray for either outcome; she would let the gods decide his fate. They had been merciful, even generous towards him thus far. She doubted that they would suddenly change their tune.

A gentle hand gripped her elbow. She looked sideways to see Ashara, still pale-faced, but her concern clearly directed toward her.

“Are you alright?” She asked her.

Lyanna blinked, confused until she realized what sort of a sight she made. Suddenly faced with the news of winter, Lyanna had stood in silence for some time with her hand pressed against her belly; Ashara’s concern was even mirrored in the Maester’s face.

“I’m fine,” Lyanna insisted. “There is little any of us can do about winter’s arrival. As the Maester said, we can only hope the men return before they are caught out in the worst of it. Excuse me.”

She withdrew from Ashara’s steadying grasp and made for the stairs. Her feet were leading her back down the hallway to her bedchambers, until she stopped beforehand and turned into the nursery. It was the room that had seen every Stark grow from infant to a child in need of a bigger bed. It was her room once, many years ago. It was large enough to fit several cradles and rocking chairs, though soon enough they would only need one. Within the confines of the nursery Lyanna found she was able to exhale. She tilted her head back against the door and sighed again, her body still feeling the need to catch up, as if she had just poked her head above water.

The nursery was deadly silent, save for wind’s howling outside. It still was quiet enough to feel alone with her thoughts. Lyanna slid down the door to sit down on the floor.

_ Winter is here. _ Though inevitable, though long-awaited, it still felt too soon. She tried to summon the memory of her last debriefing with Beron, when they had discussed the state of the stores and the winter town. The harvest had come in too late in the end, and if the snows continued, they would never be pulled from the earth. He had told her that if the winter was too harsh to hunt in, their supply would last them a three-quarters of a year-- which, Lyanna knew, was nothing at all. Old Nan had told her of winters that lasted years, where the storms never subsided and whatever game that could be found was frozen solid. Those were tales, but there was truth in them.

The winter town was already full, and whatever vacancies remained would surely be filled in the coming week. It inhabitants were people who supplied themselves until they had nothing left; then they would turn to Winterfell for food and warmth, and Lyanna would be expected to give them both.

But these were facts that she knew beforehand, things she had tried to prepare for the best she could, with what limited experience she had. There was a confounding factor now, the one of Arthur and her men, still outside Winterfell, their conditions unknown. She stopped to summon a map in her mind, to trace his path from the Dreadfort to where he might be now. They ought to have reached Bear Island, by which point they would be travelling back to Winterfell. Lyanna wished she could close her eyes and become a hawk, so she might fly overhead and see where they were. Or a direwolf, to stalk their trail and lead them to safe, warm places that only animals knew.

Frustrated, she balled a fist and drove it into the door behind her. The pain distracted her long enough to keep her from despair. Then she wrapped her arms around her belly.

“I am sorry,” she whispered aloud. “I did not want you to arrive in winter.”

Her mind traveled down the path it did before, of wondering what would become of her if Arthur perished in the snow. Only now, the path seemed darker. She would have to endure those final months alone, give birth alone, raise the child alone. She would have to fulfill her promise to Arthur and keep Allyria and Ali at Winterfell, and if Ashara left, then that would mean two other children to mind. All the while, she would still be Lady Stark, with duties to her people.

She would be unmarried again. She could seek another husband, this time one of her choosing. Her son could call him ‘father’ if he was worthy. Yet this, and every thought that came before, made her uneasy. 

“I wish your uncles were here,” she murmured. “My brothers. I wish they could see you, and give you cousins to play with. I wish…” 

_ I wish I was braver. _ No matter what she did, no matter what she endured, Lyanna Stark still felt like a little girl who had stepped into shoes far too big for her. Yet it appeared that no one around her saw it that way, and no one understood the breadth of what had been taken from her. She had been expected to simply move on, to conduct herself as a Stark, a leader of thousands of people-- and do it alone. Lyanna could suffer humiliation and shame and defeat, but she could not do it alone. It ate away at her now as it did when she first learned of her brothers’ fates. If ever she were to die before her time, it would be because she was so alone. It was so hard to be hopeful when there was no one to share in hope with.

“There is nothing more important than family, little direwolf.” Her voice sounded smaller to her ears, hardly a whisper. But it did not matter when she spoke to her child; he was inside her, after all, a part of her. “I want to give you that family. Know that no matter what happens, he wanted to come home for you.”

He— Arthur. He wanted to stay and care for her, he had said it himself. He had pressed a hand to her middle, which had been flat and nothing like the belly she had now, and kissed her, determined to come back for the sake of what had been growing beneath his palm. But she had been that woman before, prayed for men like him before, and she had nothing to show for her faith.

_ When the snows fall and the white winds blow… _

Lyanna rose to her feet and walked to the window. The glass panes were all white, and the snow fell in droves, enough to drown in.  _ Look, _ she wanted to say, but had no more strength to.  _ Starks have survived this and worse for thousands of years. You and I will survive this and worse.  _ She thought of dear Howland Reed, loyal Howland, who was like her ghost at Winterfell, always there, lying in wait.  _ I will see you through, little one. _

She tried to find the words for a prayer but found none. The gods would not heed her, for they never did, and especially not in wintertime. It was time to rely only on herself. If this was a test, the gods would simply have to try harder.


	20. Chapter 20 / The Sword of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur weathers the sea, and then a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quicker than usual, I know. Enjoy!

 

As was the nature of this progress, Arthur rarely took time to pause and study his surroundings. He had climbed mountains, trekked through snow, rode alongside rivers, and walked through forests, but not once did he find peace in any of it. In that, this progress reminded him of war. No quiet and no comfort, only a sense of doom with a prayer never far from his lips.

But to reach Bear Island, one had to slow down. It required a boat ride that took half a day-- half a day entirely out of Arthur’s control, in a small fishing sloop that effortlessly bobbed along the sea. Half a day was nothing; his journey to Pentos had taken five, and that had been on a full-fledged ship a decade ago. This was half a day of the sound of the sea, just loud enough to mask the retching of those of his men who were unused to the motions of a boat.

Arthur spent a quarter of the trip on his feet, huddled in furs and leaning against the side of the vessel to take in the sight of sound of it all. He could not remember a single thought passing his through his mind at the time. For the rest of the trip, he was asleep on the wooden floor of the hold, not even minding the smell of fish below. It was impossible to mind when one was as tired as he was.

When Jory jostled him awake, Arthur knew it was the end of this brief respite on the sea. He took his green-faced men ashore, and began to lead them to Mormont Keep-- their final castle, the final house to attempt to serve and likely be rebuffed. They had stabled their horses in the harbor town where they had boarded the fishing boat, and though they would not stay long, Arthur paid for horses, giving their master the full price of them, with the promise of a partial refund upon returning them intact. During the transaction, he realized he could have insisted on borrowing the horses free of charge, based on the virtue of his title alone. But the way of a lord was not Arthur’s way; he always paid for what he took and what he borrowed, even when Rhaegar lamented at the added expense in wartime. Yet Arthur knew that while peoples trust cannot be bought, it can be built through a fair exchange of coin. He had reminded him of that when he had wrote to him for the wedding present of coin. The generosity with which he returned the letter seemed proof enough that Rhaegar took it to heart.

Bear Island was all stone and trees, but due to the men’s light-headed states, they resumed the languid pace of the boat ride on land. Arthur did not try to hurry them along, for the skies were clear and the ground was devoid of snow. It was cold, colder than it had been on the mainland, but that did not have the power to disturb him as it did before. His furs were thick and warm, and after this night he would be headed back-- back to Winterfell, back to his siblings, back to warm stone walls, back to adequate rest and food, and back to his lady wife who carried his unborn child in her womb. 

Night had fallen by the time they arrived at Mormont Keep. The wooden walls bore lit torches on either side of the gate. In the flickering light, Arthur could see a woman carved into it, wrapped in bearskin, a breast exposed for the babe in her arm to suckle on, while she held a battleaxe in her other hand. 

“Lyanna,” he mumbled her name without conscious thought. Though he knew her very little, he knew her enough to know that this was what she wanted to be, what he knew she could be. When the gate parted, so did the thought. Standing at the entrance of the small wooden castle, if it could be called that, was a woman, short, stout, and assuming a wide stance. He only knew she was a woman by her long, braided hair, for she wore men’s trousers and ringmail, with a morningstar on her hip. As she stepped toward them and into the light, he recognized her quickly.

Maege Mormont had been at his wedding. She had eyed him with great contempt from beginning to end of it, had started the chorus of laughter during Lyanna’s defiant silence during her vows. He would learn more about her later; he would learn that she came from a long line of warrior women, and that her eldest daughter had been no exception. She had died on the Trident, a girl of only sixteen. But she had other daughters, and they followed in her shadow now. They were three, of varying ages, all of them young. They glared at him from behind their mother-- even the youngest, who could not have been more than six.

Arthur dismounted, which prompted his men to do the men.

“Lady Maege,” Arthur began. “I--”

“You needn’t say anymore. I’ve heard it all by now,” the woman interrupted brusquely. “Bear Island thanks House Stark, but needs no help. I’ve prepared my horses. We’d best head out now, not waste any time.”

Arthur blinked, surprised at the sudden turn the conversation took. His surprise turned into confusion when he took better stock of what she had said. “You’ve prepared your horses?” He repeated questioningly.

“Aye. I’m coming with you, to Winterfell,” the woman returned in an irate tone that suggested that she had told him this before, and he had forgotten. “My girls are coming as well, but they’re hardy. Not that my girls are any concern of yours, bastard.”

“My lady, I don’t understand.”

The woman sighed in clear exasperation. “My brother lost his only son on the Trident. He has no desire to rule Bear Island anymore, and will go to the Wall. He agreed to give me half a year before he does; he made me this promise a moon’s turn ago, and I’ll not waste another day on account of your being late.”

There appeared to be no time to explain that he had been late due to the poor weather that had plagued him the past three months, for the woman was headed to a small wooden building that Arthur assumed to be the stables. He followed her there, and stood in the doorway as she took a saddled horse by the reins.

“I must ask you for a single night,” he said in the face of her ill-tempered expression. “My men are hungry, and it would be wiser to travel by daylight.”

The woman grimaced deeper and put a hand on her hip. Her daughters picked up on her irritation and expressed their own; one crossed her arms, one put her hands on her hips, and littlest stomped her foot.

“A single night,” the woman repeated, “then I will leave by first light, whether you are awake or not.”

 

* * *

 

 

Maege Mormont had no interest in speaking to Arthur after that. She got along amiably with his men, but made a point in ignoring Arthur completely. That did not mean Arthur didn’t hear her speak; the close quarters on the fishing boat and on the road meant that nothing she said could go unheard.

He learned that the eldest of her daughters was named Alysane, that she was ten years old, and preferred the sword. She was short and squat like her mother and missing a few teeth. So long as she wasn’t looking at Arthur, she often smiled. The next daughter was named Lyra, and though she was younger than her elder sister by two years, she was taller and had a skinny frame. She carried a bow and a quiver of arrows on her back, and a dagger on her hip. 

“The littlest one is Jorelle, though her sisters call her Jory,” Maege had said of the youngest, who seemed to be eternally pouting.

“That’s my name,” Jory had remarked with a teasing smile.

“No, it’s  _ mine _ ,” the girl returned with a glare. Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle from his place, admiring how much fury she fit into the frame of a girl of five. The little one, blessedly, did not carry a weapon, but eyed Dawn when she thought Arthur wasn’t looking. All three girls had their mother’s dark hair and eyes, shared her ruddy complexion, and all wore trousers and ringmail, with boiled leather, sheepskin vests, and furred cloaks to keep warm.

They purchased an additional two horses back on the mainland, where Maege had refused his coin outright. Her and Jorelle shared one stallion while Alysane and Lyra shared the other. The two older girls had squabbled over who would sit in the front of the saddle while Jorelle cried for a horse of her own. The noise subsided when Alysane and Lyra agreed to take turns, and when Jorelle was promised that she could grasp the reins all by herself. This arrangement resulted in a small cry of protest each time her mother pulled the reins in a new direction.

When it came time to camp, the Mormonts took care of themselves. They built their own fires, erected their own tent, and even caught their own game. To Arthur’s surprise, the two older girls would go hunting on their own, disappearing into the forest for long stretches of time before returning with hares and birds in hand. They would skin and pluck the animals themselves, with guidance from their mother, then mount them on a spit to cook. They did not share their food with the men, or even their own mother, who would go hunt with Jorelle and return much sooner than her two girls.

They still crossed over to share in conversation with the men. While the girls were wary of most of them, they took a quick liking to Jory, who they tormented with riddles and tests. Maege was more open to conversing with the rest of them, and her belly laughs would pierce the night air whenever she found something amusing.

Arthur stopped trying to make conversation with her after the third night. If he was not outright ignored, he would be glared at before Maege made some quip about noisy bastards or a prying southron. Jory, at the very least, paid him an apologetic glance whenever the situation arose; his other men would shift uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond to the disregard Maege paid their commander.

Thus, on the fourth night, Arthur simply found it easier to sit silently by the fire and polish Dawn while the others talked. He spotted Jorelle out of the corner of his eye, looking intently at his sword as she had been since they first met.

“Do you like the sword?” He asked the child.  _ Her mother will not speak to me, but perhaps she will.  _

“I hate your sword,” Jorelle returned loudly, her freckled face twisted in childish fury.

The sudden rage took him by surprise. “Why?” 

“Because it killed Dacey.”

“Perhaps it did,” Arthur said quietly. He could not say for certain who he struck down on the Trident that day; he only knew that Brandon Stark was one among dozens of others who were not as important. If the girl’s sister was among them, he could not recall. “Can you tell me about your sister, Jorelle?”

“She’s dead,” the girl replied plainly.

“What else?”

“She danced with me. And she was tall.” The girl squinted at him. “Almost tall like you.”

There was a thoughtfulness in her voice as she recalled her sister. That what was he had hoped to elicit from her: memory. It was the strongest tie to those who passed. “You must miss her a great deal.”

“Dacey liked using a mace, like mother,” a different girl’s voice chimed in. It was Lyra, having crept in to listen. “But she was good with a bow, and a sword too.”

“A fine warrior,” Arthur noted as he turned Dawn over in his hand. Lyra nodded in agreement. “Sometimes I hate this sword too.”

This earned him puzzled glances from all three girls. “Why?” They asked in near unison, Alysane included.

“It’s done terrible things. It killed people who were loved dearly. But it is not all the sword’s fault; it’s mine too.” Arthur did not likely hiding the bald truth; he knew what he was, what he had done. He knew why he was hated by so many northmen and his own wife. “If you hate the sword, you should hate me too.”

“But I don’t know you,” Jorelle returned thoughtfully. Arthur couldn’t help but reflect on the girl’s unwittingly sage response. He had endured a great deal of being hated on sight because of who he had cut down in the name of war, and because of what he had because of it. Yet children didn’t understand; even those who had lost someone didn’t comprehend what had shifted above them. They didn’t appreciate the difference between a lord and a king, or a Dayne and a Stark. The thing that killed their father or brother or sister was a sword as much as it was a man, but they did not always plant malice in the killer where there was none.

_ How much simpler things would be if we all thought like children. _ He tried to imagine how different it would have been had his wife had first looked at him and saw a stranger, not a murderer. That had been the insurmountable mountain; she had come to him believing she knew all there was to know about him, and closed the door behind her.  _ Am I any better? _ He wondered.  _ I looked to her and saw a wife. Perhaps that was my mistake. _

“You know, my mother was a warrior too, like your mother and sister,” Arthur said, his eyes moving from Dawn to the girls to assess their reaction.

Lyra exchanged a glance with Alysane, who remained on the fringes, refusing to participate. “Really?” She asked.

“Yes. She carried this sword, in fact.” It was strange to think about sometimes. It often felt like he had been born wielding Dawn in his hands, though he had only had the sword for half his life. For the other half, it had been Alia Dayne’s.

“That’s a... greatsword?” Jorelle asked, tentative. When Arthur nodded, the girl grinned proudly.

“Dacey could carry a greatsword too. She was tall and strong enough,” Lyra added with a hint of pride.

“Yes, you must be to carry this. My mother was the greatest warrior I had ever known. Do you know what killed her?”

“That sword,” Jorelle guessed swiftly.

Arthur shook his head. “A sickness. Not even a blade like this one could have saved her from that.” He smiled for the girls’ sakes, but there was no mirth in him. “We all go, child. We can’t always choose how.”

“Dacey wanted to fight,” a third girl’s voice chimed in. It was Alysane, having found her tongue. “She wanted to fight for our king.”

“As I fought for mine,” Arthur added quietly. “I’m sorry for your sister.”

The hush had fallen over the entire party. When Arthur looked over to Maege, he was surprised to see her joining in the quiet, an expression of muted sorrow directed toward her daughters. The only sound that could be heard was that of the crackling fire, and of Jorelle’s steps as she neared him and Dawn.

“What’s it made out of?” She asked.

“A fallen star,” Arthur answered.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning started with snow.

Snow had never been out of place; they trekked through it, slow as they were, thinking nothing of it. When it began to fall heavier, Arthur considered stopping and finding shelter, but neither his men nor Maege complained, so they continued. He was unused to snow; they were not. If there was a qualm to be had, he had no doubt that Maege would speak up.

But then at midday, very quickly, very suddenly, the snow turned cruel. It fell hard and fast, climbing farther up their shins as they dragged their horses through it. The wind whipped the hood of his cloak back and bit at his skin, air so cold it burned. There was no sun in the sky, no path before them that was not white, and the wind was so loud that they had to shout to be heard.

“We cannot remain in this for much longer!” Jory yelled from beside him. If he had not been so close, Arthur might not have seen his face at all. “We must find shelter!”

Arthur knew that was true. He had known it since the first few snowflakes fell. He knew it when Jorelle’s weeping became louder than the wind, and her mother had to carry her in her arms to protect her face from the cold. The other two huddled close to their mother, but when Arthur could catch sight of their faces, he saw nothing but fright. They were all shivering, moving stiffly through snow that climbed ever higher and higher. The storm would kill them before the day was through.

But the wind blew too hard to set up tents, and the snow had destroyed any chance of gathering wood and kindling for a fire. They had the choice of sitting in place and freezing, or continuing onwards and freezing. Arthur shut his eyes against the wind and prayed.

_ Show me the way, Father, _ he begged silently.  _ Give us enough strength to pass into your arms. _

“We’ll walk a little longer!” Arthur finally said. There was no room or energy for protest; there was no other choice.

They continued onward into the vast expanse of white. The horses nickered loudly, their blankets not enough to spare them from the bone-deep cold. They hardly knew how to walk in all this snow, and would often pick up their front hooves as they attempted a crooked gallop. Arthur’s own horse did the same; when he looked back at it, the stallion’s brilliant white coat blending into his surroundings, he found that the Mormonts were no longer at his side. He stopped, and walked back through his tightly knit throng of men to find Maege dragging her feet, knee deep in snow, as all her of her girls clung to her with their faces buried in her shirt.

The woman’s face was screwed up in determination, but she did not forget to scowl when he appeared before her.

“Let me carry her,” Arthur offered, nodding towards Jorelle in her arms.

“I do not need your help,” Maege returned sharply as she took another labored step. He did not know how she managed to carry a child, drag a horse, and move with two more children wrapped around her legs. Arthur jostled the reins from her hand and dragged the horse to one of his men, pushing the reins into his hands. Then Arthur circled back to Maege.

“Now is not the time for quarrels,” Arthur said, his voice raised to combat the howling of the wind. “You need your strength, for the sake of your daughters. Let me help you!”

The woman still refused to hand over her youngest daughter. However, Lyra drew away from her side and pushed through the snow to Arthur’s side. Though the girl was tall, and past the age of being held, she was still light enough to carry. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the fur of his hood.

“I cannot carry you, Alysane, but if you can hold on tightly to the reins, you can sit on my horse,” Arthur offered to the older girl. But she shook her head, the gesture almost imperceptible in the storm. “If you change your mind, call my name.” Arthur returned to the front with Lyra in his arms, shivers wracking her body.

_ My sins are beyond forgiveness, but I ask for your mercy nonetheless, Father, _ Arthur prayed again.  _ Help me. Help these people. _

Though time passed in a way that could not be measured, they soon found themselves bumping into trees. Arthur took heart in this, knowing that where there were trees, life could not be far away. Lyra grew heavier and heavier in his arms until Arthur felt he could carry her no longer.

_ A little longer. I can carry her a little longer, _ he told himself whenever he grew tired.  _ Just a little longer… _

Then, a pillar of grey passed into his vision, then disappeared into white again. Arthur pressed onward, following where he thought he saw color. His shoulder bumped a tree and he stumbled, but he continued until he knew the grey was not a trick, but stone-- a pillar of stone, with a wooden door.

“A minute, Lyra,” he said to the shivering girl before he set her down. He fumbled toward the door, palming it to find the knob. His hands felt frozen through his gloves, but he took hold of the handle and pulled it toward him. Snow blocked the entryway, keeping it barred.

“Dig it out!” He shouted to his men as they faded into view. “Dig out the snow!”

They heed his words immediately and began to dig with both arms while Jory wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him back to try and get the door open. When it gave way, they both ended up falling in the snow. Arthur got back up as quick as he could.

“Get in!” He yelled. “Bring the horses!”

Arthur stood outside, counting the number of men and horses that stumbled in. At the rear was Maege and her daughters, Lyra having rejoined them upon being set down. Maege did not look at him, but Lyra and Alysane did, their faces streaked with tears of relief. Then finally, Arthur led his stallion inside and joined the rest. He needed the help of his men to shut the door once more, and bolt it for good measure.

Arthur’s vision still felt too bright when he finally looked inside and took measure of what they had walked into. It was a bare room, with no furniture save for a desk and chair. There was a surprising amount of space, enough to fit their fourteen horses, Maege and her daughters, and all twelve men, including himself. Even if room had been an issue, there was a set of spiral stairs in the middle, with another floor to accommodate them. Some of the men had already scaled the stairs to leave more room below for the horses.

“A watchtower,” Jory announced. There was still snow in his hair, stuck like little icicles. 

Arthur nodded.  _ Thank you, Father.  _

“See if there is anything we can start a fire with,” Arthur commanded of his men. “We will weather the storm here. Mind your stores-- especially the water; we do not know how long it will be before we can find it again.”

Though it was a respite from the wind, it was still utterly cold inside. No one dared remove a single article of clothing. As the men began to stiffly move and follow orders, Arthur’s gaze fell upon the stationary mother and daughters. Maege sat on the floor, her arms around all three of her daughters as they huddled together for warmth and comfort. They all still shivered violently. 

“If you find it in you to rest later, you will sleep surrounding the girls,” Arthur called out to his men.

“What do you mean by that?” Maege snapped, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“If we cannot find fire, then the only warmth they will have is that which our own bodies can produce. If we surround you, they might find respite from chills.”

“And I am meant to trust my young daughters in such close quarters around these strange men? Yourself among them, bastard?”

The insult did not sting, not after the burn of the cold. “If any man is untoward, I will hold him down while you geld him, my lady,” Arthur returned plainly.

“And if it is you that’s untoward?”

“Throw me out into that storm. You outnumber me by far.”

He walked down the stairs to where the horses were huddled against the far side of the building and found his own.  _ White as snow, you are, _ he thought to himself. _ I could have lost you. _ He fixed the blanket across the stallion’s back, pressed his forehead against his neck, then prayed again.

 

* * *

 

The weather the next morning made liars out of them all. Snow had stopped falling and the sun had pushed away the clouds, promising to melt the knee high snow in time. Had Arthur any bearings that survived his exhaustion, he might have found a certain beauty in such a dramatic shift. But Arthur was too tired for that, and instead, he thanked the Father once more.

When they emerged from the watchtower, they found that they had stayed in a crofter’s village that most of his men were quite familiar with. Ramshackle huts dotted the snowy landscape; had Arthur and his men persisted a little further the day before, they might have stumbled into the longhall, which held bundles of dried wood and straw. On each side of them was ponds, each one frozen over. At the center of one such pond was a weirwood tree, unperturbed by the cold, its red leaves bright and plenty against so much white.

They made holes in the ice for fishing. Alysane had carried more fishing line with her than any of them combined, but she chose to share it with only Arthur. She even recruited her sisters in finding him a branch strong enough to fish with. After they had put it all together for him, Arthur sat on the bank of the pond, his new fishing pole in one hand while he gripped the fishing line in the other. He had tied a small piece of ribbon, donated by Jorelle, to the hook and waited patiently for a bite.

His eyes skated across the icy surface of the pond and settled upon the weirwood tree. There was a queer irony in it being here; he had asked the Father for help, and the Father led him to a haven of the old gods. Or perhaps it was the old gods who led him here; he had married beneath such a tree, after all, though this one had no face. Yet it seemed to him that the old gods of the North had been cruel to him ever since he crossed into the Neck. Well before this snowstorm, or even that bloody trek in the Neck, before he had even began a war against the north, Arthur had dreams of a castle of his own, lands of his own, children that carried his name, and a wife who loved him. A wife who would gladly take him into her bed on any given night, and who would never leave him wanting.

None of that had come to pass; the dream disappeared in the waters of the Trident, washed away with Brandon Stark’s blood. Now he was finally headed back to Winterfell, he knew he would not be welcomed by the warm embrace of his wife. Lyanna had made that much clear— just as her desire was clear every time they had found themselves alone together. There was a beast in her blood, one that she was forcing herself not to run with. He saw it in that final night before he left, saw it so clearly that his loins had ached. She wanted him in the way he had always wanted his wife to want him; but she denied herself because the depths of her stubbornness were much greater than any Arthur had ever seen.

It was a fruitless thing to think on now in the calm after such a storm. He should consider himself glad he survived that night at all, not bemoan the fact that his wife would not help the warmth creep back into his bones. There were greater things ahead, something that would be more rewarding than the cradle of Lyanna’s thighs. There was a child, his child. It was only a matter of time and patience.

“What are you thinking about, southron lord?” Maege’s voice, always sounding like it was on the edge of a laugh, cut through his thoughts. Arthur looked sideways, surprised to see her standing beside him.

“My wife,” Arthur replied automatically. “She carries my child.” He does not know why he told her this. It only seemed the natural thing to say.

“I thought as much,” the woman replied before she plopped down in the snow next to him. “How far along is she?”

“Five moons.” He tried to remember what his mother had looked like at five moons with his siblings, but could not recall; he had only ever seen her at the tail end of his pregnancies. He thought then of Ashara, who had kept her child a secret until the very end, until finally he remembered the Lady Rhaella. Her heavy gowns had concealed her bumps until they were too large to disappear behind fabric. If he concentrated he might remember her halfway points, and times when she wore lighter gowns; but such memories came coupled with bruises on her pale arms, and Arthur found it difficult to focus after that.

“She would be better off raising the babe without you,” Maege returned nonchalantly. “She could do it alone. I’m certain.”

She could— but Arthur wondered if she truly wanted to. She had pressed his hand to her middle and asked him to return. Those were not the actions of a woman who wanted to raise her child alone. Though he supposed that Maege only spoke from her own experience; Arthur knew she was unmarried, but little beyond that.

“Did the father of your daughters have no desire to raise them?” He asked, forgetting to be courteous.

“Their father is a bear.”

Arthur furrowed his brows and looked over at the lady. She was not smiling, and there seemed to be no jape in her voice.  _ A bear,  _ Arthur repeated in his head. He looked at her cubs fishing across from him, all of them human enough.

“The princess is gentle-hearted,” Maege continued. “Perhaps your best use is to be the one to put her children over your knee; we do not want a spoilt lord.”

Arthur grimaced. _ And I do not want to strike my children. _ He had more or less raised his own siblings without needing to raise a hand to any of them. Allyria had been a trial, but not even she needed to be disciplined through spankings. There were other ways, gentler ways, and though Arthur had not known them growing up, he had resolved to discover them and commit to them with his own siblings, and now with his own children. 

Maege’s sudden cackle alarms him. “The face you made!” Maege exclaimed, grinning broadly. “I was afraid you’d have a gentle heart as well. I’ll tell you a secret; you’ll need never put a daughter over your knee, if you want her to grow up like one of my girls, or even like the princess. Give me this.” She reached over and wrenched the pole and fishing line from his hands. “You’re useless at it. Look, my Aly has caught three already.” Arthur followed her line of sight to where the eldest daughter sat with three pale fish laid out in the snow beside her.

“You know,” the woman began thoughtfully, “I told the princess I would kill you if she willed it. She needs only to ask.”

Arthur thought of Lyanna's sharp grey eyes, and the many times they fixed on him with rage. She never seemed more like the direwolf of her house than when she was angry; he saw it first when she raised her head to look at Rhaegar. She had looked like she would tear his throat out and feast on his heart. “I think she would be more than glad to kill me herself,” he remarked blithely, prompting another bark of laughter from the older woman.

“She hasn’t killed you yet. You must be good for something.”

_ Good in bed. Good for fixing houses and trekking across the North. _ He was being flippant, he knew, but he was tired and cold and irritated. He missed the warmth of Winterfell, he missed Ashara and Ali and Allyria, he missed the men he left behind, and he missed Lyanna. Not her brevity or her occasional cruelty, but to have her within sight and be close enough to protect her. He still could not believe it at times— that he had a wife so young and pretty and able, and that soon he could call her the mother of his child. It was not something he had ever expected for himself; he would do as Rhaegar bid him, whether as his guard in the capital or married off to some lord’s daughter in his own castle, on his own lands. Fate had handed him something he had never expected; and a woman he never expected either.

“She’s a strong girl. A brave one,” Maege mused. “Not a single tear as she buried her brothers. She did not even cry when she married you.”

Arthur had noticed. He had thought her brave then, but learned that she was braver still, stronger still. It made him glad— not glad to know that she hurt, but glad that his children would learn strength and bravery from her. Not strength in arms, which was violent and hard, but strength of spirit. Not brave in battle, but brave at heart. It took more than a warrior to make a ruler. It took an iron will, too. Lyanna Stark was, in short, admirable.

He had thought as much when he first saw her. She had been a speck on the horizon, riding out from Winterfell on a brown mare. She had dismounted with such ease and grace— and kneeled as if it were the hardest thing she’d ever done. Her eyes had been fixed on the crown she removed; when she was asked to rise, she paid Rhaegar a glare more angry and mirthless than any he’d ever seen before. She did not see Arthur then, nor did she see him pick the crown up from off the ground and put it away. Rhaegar wanted to melt it down into his throne; he wondered now if he had done that yet.

“She will be yours,” his half-brother had promised him well before they had reached Winterfell. “Her blood makes her better matched with Viserys, but we need her name, and our brother is too proud. You’ll marry her for me, won’t you?”

Arthur had agreed; it was his duty to agree.

“I only want to take care of her,” Arthur mumbled as he gripped Dawn’s hilt, feeling childish in his frustration.

“She does not need you. She has the North,” Maege replied, apparently sharp-eared as well as tongued.

_ The North did not marry her. I did, _ he thought to himself, unwilling to continue an argument with the woman beside him.  _ The North did not father a child on her either.  _ She was his duty, whether either of them liked it or not. He would do right by her and by the children of her body.

“Well, bastard? Do you treat her well?”

Arthur frowned and looked away from her, indignant. “Would you even believe me if I told you?”

She gave a short cackle. “Perhaps not, though you strike me as an honest man.”

“I think I am good to her,” he answered, almost sullenly, “but I am still difficult to be near.”

“She does not let you forget what you did. Good; she cannot forget what you did, either.”

_ That is the truth at heart, isn’t it? No one can forget. _

Arthur looked down at Dawn, and wondered how long a sword’s memory might be. Longer than his, by far, but the blade only remembered blood and being born. It was no better than human memory, but it was simpler. 

He heard footsteps in the snow approach from behind him. Arthur got to his feet and turned around to look at Jory, flanked by several of the men. 

“When do we move, my lord?” Jory asked him, seemingly ready to depart now. But Arthur had already formulated a plan that morning, and it did not include him.

“I will ride out to Winterfell and return for you all,” Arthur announced as he leaned Dawn against his shoulder.

“Only you?” When Arthur nodded, Jory grimaced and shook his head. “No. We will all ride out together.”

Arthur furrowed his brows. “I am giving you a command, captain,” he reminded him firmly. He did not suffer disobedience from his men gladly, especially not after a storm had nearly froze them all where they stood. This was the safest measure, the least likely to harm anyone.

“And I am giving you my defiance,” Jory returned indignantly. “We are only two days out from Winterfell; there is no sense in you going alone.”

“And if we are beset by another storm? Better that I die in it than all of us.”

Maege snorted loudly behind him. She rose to her feet, a fish hooked at the end of her line. “You may do what you like, southron lord, but I will be riding out with my girls today.”

Arthur set his jaw. “My lady, I would have you wait for me.”

“The women of Bear Island learned long ago that there was no sense in waiting for men to come to their rescue,” Maege returned with a shrug. “I ride today.”

“This place will not sustain us long,” Jory added. “We do not have enough firewood, and if we fish out the pond, then we lose food as well. No— we set out together, and we will return home together, no matter the consequences.”

“Home?” Arthur repeated, the word foreign on his tongue. Where was home? Dragonstone, where he was born? Starfall, the birthright he’d never seen? King’s Landing, Rhaegar’s burgeoning city? Winterfell was home for Jory, perhaps, but was it home for Arthur?

_ That will be where my son will be born,  _ he reminded himself. _ That will be his birthright and his life. That is where Ashara and Allyria and Ali are now. That’s where my wife is now. That’s where she wanted me to return to. _

Arthur smiled to himself. Perhaps that’s all it took to make a home. Perhaps all a home needed to be was a place to come back to. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the warm stone walls beneath his fingertips. A place that was always warm could certainly be a home, for now.

“Very well,” he said, almost glad in his defeat. “Let’s go home.”

  
  



	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur returns to Winterfell. Things heat up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :)

 

As the evidence of her being with child was becoming more obvious, it was clear that others around her wanted nothing more than to spoil her. Her trays of food had larger portions than before, Lyla appeared to hover outside her door each morning to listen carefully for sounds of her stirring awake so that she might come in at that precise moment, Maester Luwin never neglected to go a single day without asking if she needed something from him, and even sweet Ser Rodrik would offer his arm for her to walk with whenever she was in sight, his eyes brimming with a father’s pride. The extra attention had been wearisome at first, but it soon secretly made her glad, even as she rolled her eyes at the extra chivalry and fretting.

Still, it had felt selfish to want to take a warm bath that evening when so many others froze in their homes. It was still difficult to want to do things for herself; so much of her desire for pure enjoyment was interred with her brothers’ bodies, and each new desire trounced around in her head feeling overdressed and undeserved. Especially now that winter had come, even the smallest pleasure felt too grand. For the past few days she had frowned at the extra food on her plates, her mind wandering to Beron’s meagre numbers on the food they had stored away. When the Maester offered her a tea for her new aches, she thought upon how the herbs might soon be needed for someone sicker than she, and she refused.

She had watched as the water for her bath was pulled from the hot springs, very nearly angry at herself for wanting this at all when it had snowed the way it did today, in feathery sheets that melted too quick and only served in making you wet and cold and miserable. By the time the tub was filled, she had eyed the steam rising off the surface almost hungrily before climbing in. It was warm and wonderful and exactly what the body wanted after such a cold and snowy day-- and entirely undeserved, when she accomplished as little as she did. Yet Lyanna knew that every day would be cold and snowy now that winter had arrived, and begrudging herself a bath for the whole season would not do anyone any favors.

After the fact, she dressed herself in her nightgown, white and long-sleeved and silk. She left it untied in the front, feeling too lazy to do it up. While she brushed out her hair, she realized it had grown ridiculously long, much longer than Lyanna had ever allowed it to grow before. She looked at herself in the mirror, wondering when it happened that she had come to look like such a woman. Her hair reached down to her waist, pin-straight, dark, and shiny, a far cry from the shorter, tangled tresses she had known her whole life. Her face was clean and clear of any blemishes, nearly glowing beneath disappearing freckles. When her eyes travelled down the line of her neck to her body, she found herself still surprised to see the changes there-- fuller breasts and a burgeoning belly, both of which were once flat as a board.

Lyanna set her brush down and frowned at the woman in the mirror. She was a lady, lovely, put together-- everything she had dreaded becoming. _This was no choice of mine,_ she reminded herself sourly. _I was made into this. I had to become this, someday._ Like her mother, she had put her tunic and trousers at the bottom of a chest, and stepped into becoming a woman, a mother. More than that, she had been made the lady of a castle she once believed she would leave upon marriage to some northman hungry to call the Starks his kin. Instead, she had married a southron and would call Winterfell home for the rest of her days.

_I wonder if mother was disappointed to marry father,_ Lyanna thought to herself. Lyarra had grown up at Winterfell, just as Rickard did. Didn’t she want to see the world? Didn’t she want more than this? Old Nan had told her that Brandon was born nine moons’ turns after their parents were wed. There had been no more time for selfishness.

She rose from her seat at the vanity and wandered over to her bed, her bare feet scraping the warm stone floors. She picked up the blade she slept with nightly and lifted it so that it might catch the candlelight. Strange, that this was all that connected her to the girl she was-- a blade that she would have never been allowed to carry, a gift from a strange and unwanted husband. But when she held the sword she could imagine herself as a little girl again, half a savage, wielding a stick as she clashed with Benjen and knocked him into the dirt.

_Look at me now, Benjen. It is everything I ever wanted, after I lost everything I ever wanted._

A knock came at her door. Lyanna turned her whole body toward the sound, waiting for an indication of who stood behind it. She knew immediately by the presence of courtesy that it was neither Allyria nor Ali, but the lack of announcement also meant it was not Maester Luwin or Ashara or another member of her household. So who could it be?

Winterfell held no enemies, but she stepped warily towards the door regardless, one hand clutching the front of her nightgown closed while the other held her sword at the ready. She realized the flaw in this plan when no one opened the door to let themselves in. Lyanna relinquished the front of her nightgown and pulled the door open quickly; her hand flew back to her nightgown and she angled the tip of the sword forward-- then dropped it to the floor with a clatter.

“Arthur,” she breathed. His kind, honest face, one she had not seen in a long time, smiled down at her. “You sent no word of your return.”

“I suppose I wanted to surprise you,” he confessed. His voice was as warm as she remembered it, made complete with his southron accent. His took her hands where they had fallen to her sides and brought them to his lips for a gentle kiss. The hairs of a newly grown beard scratched her fingers as he did. When she stepped backward to let him in, the candlelight brought more detail to his face. Aside from the beard, there was another new feature: a scar along his cheek that was not there before. Lyanna reached up to touch it.

“What happened?” she asked.

“It seems the mountain clans find it customary to duel the Lord of Winterfell,” Arthur admitted with a shrug. “Or at least, it is customary when the Lord of Winterfell is a southerner.”

“Duels?” Lyanna asked, incredulous. “You made no mention of duels in your letters.”

“There was no need to worry you. I won all of them, after all.” His smile turned mischievous, but Lyanna would have none of it.

Lyanna pulled her hand away and into a fist. “There was certainly a need,” she said, sharp-tongued. “I must know when lords challenge their guests to duels; it is my business.”

He did not respond to that, but before she could press further he came forward to rest both his large hands on the swell of her middle. It was a different feeling, a warm one, to have someone other than herself or other ladies cradle her unborn child. It was made doubly keen by those hands being her husband’s hands.

“How is it?” Arthur asked; the way he looked at the bump, and the gentle way he touched it, made it feel like the most precious thing in the world.

“Different,” she admitted in a murmur. “He’s started to move inside me. I can feel him.”

His gaze flickered up to her face, and the expression admitted surprise. “That is wonderful,” he breathed. “Gods help me— I know I am not—“

Lyanna quirked a brow. “What is it?”

“I want to kiss you, Lyanna.”

When Lyanna rose on her toes to kiss him, her whole body filled with warmth. Though she would not admit it, she had missed his presence, his kisses, his gentle touches. She wished he would do more than touch her face as they kissed; she would not have refused a hand on her waist, or her backside or her breast.

“Sweet girl,” he murmured when he drew away. She did not remember his gaze being so heavy-- or his lips being so soft, for that matter. “Would you believe me if I said I missed you?”

“Missed kissing me, perhaps,” Lyanna japed, feeling breathless. His laugh was a low rumble; even that excites her.

“I don’t think I did that often enough to miss it,” he said. “How have you been, with the child?”

“Hungry,” Lyanna said immediately, earning her another laugh, “for food and… other things,” she added softly. She felt herself turn too shy to spell it out for him. Moreover, she was surprised at his restraint. Didn’t he ache for her, too? Didn’t he want to kiss her again, touch her more? Wasn’t she still desirable to him?

He quirked a brow, but did not seem to understand her implication. “Have we a demanding child from now?”

_You’ve a demanding wife,_ she almost said. There was an ache for him, for the lustful couplings they had shared, and a desire to do away with the tension that had been building up inside her. She could not aptly describe the desire that had ebbed and flowed within her ever since her morning illnesses has passed. All she ever thought about in her great empty bed was how wonderful it would be to have another pair of hands touching her, and a man inside her— yet she desired none other than her husband, and though she tried to work it away with her own hands, it was not the same. Her lust was stronger than it had ever been, and she had no doubt that the babe was at fault for it somehow. _Being with child is slowly turning me mad._

To her surprise, Arthur kneeled before her. “Don’t give your mother too much trouble,” he whispered as he cradled her belly in his hands. He pressed a gentle kiss to her navel, his breath warm through her nightgown. Goosebumps darted up her arms and her breath caught in her throat.

“We’ll speak more in the morning; I will leave you to sleep,” he said once he was back on his feet, “but know that I’m glad to see you again.” He leaned down to press a light kiss to her temple and swept out of her room as quietly as he arrived. The room suddenly felt much emptier without him, the air which he had occupied sucked out. She surprised herself to find that she was frustrated by his removal.

_I waited three long moons, and that is all I get?_ She fumed privately. _I spent every moment in fear for your life only for a stupid kiss?_ Her hands were balled up in angry fists as she paced the room a few more times. She picked up her sword where she had dropped it on the floor, and flung it onto her bed. _If I knew that is how you would receive me, I’d have driven that sword through your heart._

Her feet moved faster than her mind and she stormed out of her chambers, and covered the ten paces down the hall to the door of his chambers swiftly. She had no desire to knock; she simply turned the knob and allowed herself in, not even remembering to change her grimace to something gentler.

By the time Lyanna had entered his chambers, he had only stripped himself of his cloak and doublet. He eyed her curiously, no doubt confused over this unusual and sudden sight. Lyanna had never come to his chambers before. She closed the door behind her, and leaned back against the wall. The stones here were warmer than in her own chambers, and felt good against her skin.

“I believe you have the warmest chambers in the castle,” she said, trying to be nonchalant, as if she weren’t ready to skewer him on the end of her sword just a few moments ago.

“I’m glad for that,” he returned just as casually as he folded up his doublet and set it gingerly on a nearby chair. “I’ve grown more than tired of the cold.”

“That must be thanks to your Dornish blood,” Lyanna remarked.

“I think anyone who had spent as much time as I have in this winter would feel the same.” He walked over to her, close enough that her middle almost touched his. She had to tilt her head up to look at him. By gods, he was tall; but then, she was rather small herself. “I read about how this castle was built over a hot springs,” he murmured.

“Yes-- but I don’t want to talk about hot springs right now,” she said impatiently. Her body was calling out to him, hungry for his touch. It was beyond strange that after coupling with him only six times, she desired it now more than ever. It was the babe who heated her blood, no doubt. The child would be some part Dornish, after all, and the sun was in their blood the way that ice was in hers.

“What do you want?” he asked huskily. His gaze was dark and heavy; she wondered if he know the effect it had on her.

“You,” she breathed. _Can’t you tell?_ This was a weakness of hers, she knew, one that only amplified with the arrival of the babe in her belly. There was a fire in her blood that could not be cooled; she needed him to sate her.

And she didn’t care— she was finally coming to terms that she simply didn’t care. It was just fucking, just a release, an itch she could scratch alone but chose not to. Arthur had proven himself useful to her in many ways; he could easily be useful in this.

Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms as if she were a new bride. He kissed her as he walked them over to the bed, kissed her as he laid her down atop his furs, and kissed her until she could hardly breathe.

By the end of the night, Lyanna found herself sound asleep in the circle of his arms.

 

* * *

 

In the next morning, she would learn that there was a new sort of intimacy that came with sleeping beside ones husband. She awoke before him, partly thanks to the restlessness that came with the babe, and partly due to Arthur’s own long journey the day before keeping him asleep. She spent some time observing him as he slept, her head on his rising and falling chest, her fingers playing idly with the hair he had there. He had dark eyelashes that cast shadows over his cheeks, for one. He snored, but very quietly. She also found that his new beard suited him quite well. When her eyes travelled south, she was surprised to see his manhood stiff beneath the sheets.

_The sword of the morning,_ she jested privately, and almost laughed aloud.

When he stirred awake, it was a short process. Unlike Lyanna’s lazy risings, he was wide-eyed and alert in the matter of moments. He took a quick survey of his surroundings, and smiled at her when his gaze fell upon her. The look burned her skin.

“Morning,” he said in a sleepy drawl, his voice apparently still catching up with the rest of him.

“Morning,” Lyanna returned the courtesy almost dreamily. She moved off his chest and onto her side to let him rise more easily. He followed suit and turned on his side; he put a hand to her back, pulled her closer, and kissed her briefly. Lyanna allowed it; her hunger from the night before had not escaped her yet.

“I do not think I have felt so warm since I arrived in this frozen land,” he mumbled after he drew away.

“Your chambers are the warmest,” she repeated the sentiment from last night.

“It is more than that. It is you too,” he said as he put a hand on the slight swell of her middle. “You and this.”

She did not know what to say. Nothing in her lessons on courtesy and household management had ever prepared her for this situation she was put in. Her, in her husband’s bed, carrying his child-- the child of the man who slayed her brother. She almost begged the shame to come and put her to rights, but once again her body betrayed her. It was as if her very blood knew who he was, knew who had sired the child within her, and asked for him.

And she wanted him. Damn her blood, but she wanted him.

Her hand found the ‘sword’ she had japed about earlier. Arthur sucked in a breath, clearly surprised, and Lyanna bit down on her lip to keep from giggling. It was far too easy to build him up into a state, but rewarding to hear his low moans in response. A wetness pooled between her own thighs along with an ache that was difficult to ignore.

Though last night she had let him take the lead, this morning belong to her; Lyanna straddled him and took him inside her. At the first roll of her hips, her husband skated a hand up the swell of her belly and brushed the underside of her breast. Goosebumps appeared on her skin; her nipples stiffened before one of them even received his touch. By instinct, she leaned forward to give him better reach of her. He scraped the pad of his thumb over the tip of her breast, clearly taking extra care in this gentle ministration. He had learned last night that her breasts ached constantly, and now knew better than to do more than just touch.

With each second that passed she felt herself ever closer to a release. Her husband’s hands were eager to touch, eager to explore, moving from hip to breast to thigh to belly. He enjoyed this vantage point, she could tell even from the time they had tried it before. He did not mind handing over control when there was so much to touch and feel, and she such an experienced rider. Lyanna too enjoyed it; she could not help but smile, feeling light-headed from the relief this gave her. This was what her body had craved: another man’s touch, a shared experience, something only her husband could give her. But it did not last long; pleased as her husband was, he finished within a dozen rolls of her hips. There was no moment of explosive pleasure for her, but she found herself without complaint.

She returned back to his side and was surprised to find him looking away from her. “Forgive me,” she heard him mumble before he finally turned to her, looking abashed. “I was overeager.”

Lyanna brushed her fingers over the half-moon indents her nails had made under his collarbone. “I do not mind,” she insisted with a smile she couldn’t hold back. In here, the world felt narrowed down to the two of them and this bed, where there was no lack of things to smile about.

“Are you certain?” His hand crept up her leg, before it made a turn to the inside of her thigh. Her body reacted instinctively; her knees parted enough to allow his fingers to slip between her thighs and her hand covered his in a loose grasp around his wrist. His fingers worked at her, building up that tension that had slipped away so unceremoniously before. Lyanna gasped not only at the blinding sensation but at the dark look in his eyes. She had seen desire in him before, but not like this. Something, whether it be time or eagerness, had made him more passionate. The fingers of her free hand twisted in his beard. She moved in to kiss him, but he denied her that. A pitiful moan escaped her lips; he answered the noise with a kiss against the inside of her wrist. Then perhaps just as swiftly as her husband had finished, so did she, only with more noise and less shame. He did not swallow those noises as he had so many times before. He listened, then when she was left gasping for breath, he kissed her.

When they pulled away from each other, Lyanna went further and turned away from him. Only unlike Arthur, it was not out of shame. Between last night and this morning, she felt overwhelmed. A pleasant tingle hummed through every inch of her, drumming a beat that could not be stopped. She squeezed her eyes tight and exhaled as if to push away the distracting sensation. Then, when she felt she had adequately calmed, she turned to face him again, though she knew her flushed face could not be hidden by the pillows or her hair. Her husband offered no questions. He only gingerly brushed her hair out of her eyes, then crossed his arms over his chest once more.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” Arthur announced quietly.

“Figured what out?”

“How northmen stay warm in winter.”

Lyanna’s eyes widened, then narrowed as she scowled and sat up quickly in bed. “You’ll be lucky to be this warm again,” she returned indignantly, prepared to toss the covers off before Arthur’s arm caught her above her belly and pulled her back. He was laughing as he did, and Lyanna softened at the sound.

“It was only a jest,” Arthur said softly, his hand lingering on her back. She might have considered herself fortunate to have him be so patient when she was so volatile. If had married a man like herself, they would have surely killed each other by now.

“There may very well be some truth in it,” Lyanna returned sullenly. “Many Starks have been born in winter.”

“Like this one,” he said softly. His gaze travelled south to her swollen middle; his hand slipped from her back to rest upon it instead. He looked different when he looked upon her belly; she had noticed that last night too, but only briefly, as her mind was clouded with lust. There was a tenderness in his gaze that she had yet to receive herself, a love much deeper than the bonds of duty between them. She thought it should sting, that her husband felt more for the babe in her belly than he did for her, but it did not. The respect and dignity he allowed her was enough. She covered his hand with her own.

“You said you would tell me about your progress,” she reminded him. They had not yet broached the subject of his progress since he had first returned, thanks to their distraction. “Was the road difficult?”

“It was difficult,” he admitted as he scratched at his new beard. It suited him, she decided. It made him look like a northman. “We did not arrive on time to any place due to snow. Then a storm arrived when we were returning from Bear Island. We were lucky to find shelter that night. So much snow…” Lyanna frowned at the weariness that had crept into his voice; it was not an easy night, that much was clear. “Lady Mormont and her daughters returned with us, and weathered it too. They are hardier than half your men.”

Lyanna blinked, surprised to hear the name. “Maege? She’s here, in Winterfell?”

Arthur nodded. “She did not say why, only that her brother is going to the Wall, and she wanted to see you before she became the lady of her house.”

Lyanna made a mental note to seek out Maege once she gathered the motivation to leave this bed. Until then, her gaze shifted to the new scar on his cheek. “What of these duels? Why did you rise to the challenge? Haven’t you a care for yourself?” _Or me?_ She added privately.

“There were rules in place, and I knew I could win,” he returned with a natural confidence that reminded her all too much of Brandon. Only where Brandon was cocksure, Arthur spoke as if to state a fact and not to boast. “But gods; the duels were not the worst of it. I thought Lord Umber would kill me in my sleep, Lord Karstark refused to even let me in his hall, Lord Bolton was…” He shivered, and Lyanna understood; Roose Bolton was the most unsettling man she’d ever seen. “It does not matter. I survived it, though I fear we were too late to send help to the last leg of houses.” Lyanna would pry for more details later; the reminder of winter had swiftly dampened her curiosity.  

“Winter is here,” Lyanna said softly. “I’m praying it is mild and quick.”

“You’ve done what you can,” her husband assured her, his fingers bold enough to thread through her hair where it stuck against her back. “Think only of yourself and the babe. I will handle the rest.”

“I’m pregnant, not invalid,” Lyanna returned swiftly, brows knitted indignantly. “I can do my duty _and_ take care of myself.”

Arthur chuckled warmly. “I do not deign to command you, Lyanna. I know you will do what you want.”

“I didn't even do all I could. I sent a small number of men to Lord Umber, furs to Lady Flint, and allowed a delay on a few houses’ taxes. You might as well have not gone anywhere at all,” Lyanna lamented out loud for the first time, annoyed at herself and at the whine that had crept into her voice. She had felt more than impotent ever since that white raven flew in from the Citadel, dogged by fear of winter and her own lack of confidence. What did her people think of her-- truly? Beyond being Rickard Stark’s daughter, what was she? She was not a provider, not a leader, not a warrior. She was the queen who knelt, the bumbling Stark who was only good for saving herself. No doubt the others saw her that way too.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Arthur returned gently as he continued to stroke her hair. She wondered if he could read those dark fears in her eyes, where her emotions were always obvious. But he would not call attention to such a lack in confidence; he was too chivalrous for that. “Your people are proud, but they are capable too. They will hold.”

_Will they? Or will it all end with me?_

As Lyanna prepared herself to wallow, she felt a stirring low in her belly. She moved her hand to where she felt movement, and gasped. “Come feel,” she commanded hurriedly, grabbing her husband’s hand and placing it over where she had just had it. Lyanna studied the expression of concentration on his face right before he broke out in a smile.

“He is barely there,” Lyanna said softly, almost unhappily. She felt him stir inside her from time to time, and while that was real enough, he was little more than a flutter beneath an outsider’s hand.

“But he is there,” her husband added. The warmth from before returned to his eyes, a love so true that it made her wonder if her father had ever looked at her like that. She hoped he did. While movement faded away inside her, his smile did not.

“You want it to be a boy too?” Lyanna asked, noting his use of _‘he’_.

“Only because you want it so dearly. I would love a daughter all the same.”

“But we need a boy,” Lyanna contended. It did no good to shy away from the truth; she did not expect her husband to be the sort that would.

Arthur pulled his hand away and seemed to offer a half-shrug. “I do not. I am not passing on my name.”

“It will be easier for him if it’s a boy,” Lyanna continued to insist, ignoring his last words. It had not been a complaint or an accusation, but she knew it would be better left alone. Surely, he understood why they needed a son. Surely, he saw what she had endured and felt some measure of sympathy for her, and a desire to give their child a chance to make his own choices, with power over his place and his body. She had seen it in her eldest brother, how easily he could bend others to his will with only a look. No man dared cross him; no man could make him do anything he did not want to do. “If it is a son, I should like to name him Brandon.” The words slipped out of her mouth as quickly the joy in Arthur’s face melted away. A chill replaced the lighthearted air in the room.

“No,” he said firmly.

This, she could not ignore. “He will be my son. That is what I wish to name him.”

“He will be my son as well, and I am telling you no. Choose another name.” The steeliness of his voice was not enough to deter her. She set her jaw and tried again.

“What of Eddard? Benjen?”

“No.” His purple eyes were hard, no longer sweet and like wine, but more like amethysts, like stone. Likewise, the tenderness she felt for him had finally been drawn out of her, replaced with hate and betrayal. The hate, she was familiar with; it was the betrayal that felt new.

Lyanna sat up and pulled away from him, too wrapped up in her own emotions to cover her nakedness. “Those are the names I want,” she said simply. Heat crept up her neck, another marker of her budding discontent.

Arthur mirrored her and sat up as well. “I will not name a son of mine after men I stood opposite from on a battlefield, especially not one that I killed with my own sword.”

“I want to honor my brothers,” she returned, as her eyes welled up with hot tears. She would not cry in front of him, though her frustration mounted well beyond her control. She did not do well with restraint in anger, and as of late she found she did just as poorly in sorrow.

“Find another way to honor them. I’ll not have those names.”

“Perhaps I don’t care what you’ll have or not have,” Lyanna snapped.

Arthur’s gaze turned stone cold. “You never cared.”

Something in the iciness of his voice frightened her. His tone alone felt as if he were raising a hand of warning to her, his tongue being the strike that would silence her.

“Those are ill-fated names,” he continued. “I’ll not curse my children with them.”

“Curse?” Lyanna repeated, the word like fire on her tongue. “Those names are older than my brothers. They are good names, for honorable men. For _Stark_ men.”

Arthur’s steeliness gave way to malleability as the set of his jaw slipped away and he reached a hand out to clasp hers. Lyanna drew away before he could touch her.

“I beg you, pick another name,” he said, his voice turned low and soft. “The child does not need to be attached to sad memories.”

“Memories are all I have left,” she returned, despondent. The desire to cry had reached her voice, making her words sound thick and choked. “You have so much more than that, but you will not give me my son’s name?”

He opened his mouth as if to respond, but the door of the bedroom opened with a crash. Lyanna gasped and Arthur leapt out of bed with the candlestick on the bedside table in hand, a naked warrior armed with a strange weapon. When it proved only to be a clueless Ali having burst in, Arthur returned the candlestick to its place and sighed. He found his tunic where he had abandoned it the night before and pulled it over his head to cover his manhood. Lyanna remained frozen on the bed, the coverlet pulled up to her chin.

“You’re home,” Ali said quietly, his simply mind having judging that there was nothing amiss.

“I’m home,” Arthur confirmed in a mumble. He kissed his brother on his temple then poked his head down the hall.

“Arthur!” She heard Allyria’s excited voice call from down the hall. She was giggled when she appeared in the doorway, arms outstretched. “Why aren’t you--” She met Lyanna’s gaze and made a little o with her mouth. Lyanna turned her face to the pillows, squeezing her eyes tight so that whatever tears that had been threatening to fall could do so, and get it over with.

“Welcome home, brother,” Ashara’s voice chimed in, apparently the last to arrive.

“Ashara, please,” she heard Arthur mumble. The situation must have caught up to Ashara then.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a whisper. “Come you two, let’s wait for him to come down to breakfast.” The trio bustled away and the door was shut once more. Lyanna felt the bed sink where Arthur returned to sit on the edge of it.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said in an apology of his own. “They didn’t expect…”

“I understand,” Lyanna mumbled, too upset to look at him. She sat up quickly and grimaced at the stupid tears she had left behind on the pillow.

“Lyanna…” he began to say, but Lyanna had already swept out of the bed. She found her nightgown discarded on the floor at the foot of the bed and pulled it on hurriedly. By the time she had pulled the fabric over her head, Arthur had appeared in front of her. The sight of him made her want to rage again, to throw something at him and tell him to go away. But she was a woman, not a little girl, and so she would be angry at him like a woman.

“You and I will give him a name, together. We must do this together,” her husband murmured. He reached out to touch her, but Lyanna drew away. She did not want his reconciliation, or his comfort. She had taken it last night and that morning, and that was enough.

“You said Lady Maege came all this way to see me; I must make myself ready to greet her,” Lyanna offered as an excuse before she slipped out of his bedchambers and back into her own. The privacy of her own chambers came at the cost of the emptiness of it. She was growing so tired of empty rooms. She simply wasn’t enough to fill up the loneliness of them.

That was what she told herself was the reason for the angry tears that followed.

 

* * *

 

 

Lyanna tried her best to scrub away the quarrel from her mind before finding Maege. After crying into her pillows, she grew angry at herself for the childish reaction, then angrier still at the doubt that had clouded her mind afterward. She wondered if she had been irrational or if Arthur was being unkind. It was a natural thing, to want to name her son after one of her brothers. Brandon was a good name; there was no better name, when the founder of her house was a Brandon, one who built Winterfell and the Wall and even Storm’s End, all the way in the south.

Why should he care if the name brings her sorrow? That was her burden to bear, not his. Why should _she_ care if he disapproved of the name? She was the one that carried the child, and it would be a Stark in name. He had no right to disapprove, none at all.

Yet another source of her frustration was his sudden stand against her. He had been easy to command and persuade before that morning. He had always heeded her without argument, agreed with her judgement, allowed her to do as she pleased-- but now he felt free to say _no_. Did the progress make him bold? Did his duels with mountain clansmen remind him of his power? Or did he simply see her differently now that she was with child, see her as someone easier to disagree with, easier to impose on?

He did see her differently, that much she was sure of. It was not easy to forget how soft his gaze turned when he looked upon her middle. That gaze reminded her that there was someone else who loved the child as much as she. That gaze reminded her that this was his child, too.

_It doesn’t matter,_ she seethed. _I had no choice in who would father my child. All I ask for now is this one little thing._

She was owed that, and so much more.

It seemed right that she would find Maege and her daughters in the courtyard, the four of them carrying some sort of weapon. Lyra and Alysanne sparred with each other while Maege supervised and Jorelle bounced up and down excitedly with a wooden sword in hand, clearly waiting for her turn. When Maege turned her head and found her, her daughters paused and did the same. They all knelt as she approached.

“Please, Maege,” Lyanna begged of the woman. “Do not kneel.”

“I must, so I might offer my fealty to you,” the woman said, her voice as strong and proud as she remembered it to be. That voice had given her strength going into her wedding night; she was forever grateful to it. “Bear Island will soon lose its lord to the Wall, and I will become its lady. My mace is yours, princess. Bear Island and all its warriors pledge their swords to you, for whenever you may need them.”

“House Stark thanks you, Lady Mormont,” Lyanna said hurriedly, doing her duty.

As soon as Maege rose again, Lyanna threw her arms around her. The woman returned the embrace and smiled against her cheek. “I was right, then,” Maege said cryptically.

“Right about what?” Lyanna asked as she pulled away from her.

“You did need me.” She nodded to Lyanna’s middle. “I had a feeling that was coming along.”

Lyanna settled a hand over her middle. Beneath the folds of the dress it could hardly be seen. “How did you know?” She asked.

Maege laughed her short, loud laugh. “I felt it in that embrace, and your husband told me. Though I had the feeling even before then.”

Lyanna scowled at the mention of her husband; she did not want to think of him, not in this moment.

“I like your sword,” Jorelle piped up from below, a finger pointed at the sword at her hip. It never left her side, not since she had received it. Lyanna gripped the hilt.

“Thank you,” she said. It was another ungracious reminder of her husband; she was not even sure why she put it on. It had simply become a habit.

“Aye, that looks like a proper sword. Might I see it?” Maege asked. Lyanna obliged, unsheathing it and passing it along, hilt first. The woman lifted it up to the sky, then brought it down to her side, slicing the air with a few quick strokes. “Good steel; you keep it sharp. It wouldn’t be hard to kill a man with it.”

“I have,” Lyanna said. The memory of the blood on her sword and the man’s hair between her fingers was still fresh in her mind. It was as keen as the fear she had felt as a girl when she first woke with moon’s blood on her thighs, or the emptiness she fell into when her brothers turned their backs on Winterfell and never returned. Blood left a mark in her mind. “A deserter.”

Maege aimed the hilt at Lyanna as a gesture of return. There was a hint of pride in the woman’s slight smile. Lyanna took back her sword and sheathed it.

“Girls, you keep at it,” Maege commanded of her daughters, who stood rapt to attention. “Let Jorelle try her hand at it too.”

The older two girls groaned at being forced to include the younger one, but Jorelle’s excitement only seemed to double, and she cheered loudly and bounced faster.

Lyanna and Maege put some space in between the girls and themselves. Lyanna took the few feet forward to see who else was present; Ser Rodrik was not far from them, examining the Mormont girls’ form from afar. The other men gathered or passing through paid the sparring partners less attention than she expected. But then, perhaps they had gotten used to seeing a girl carry a sword. There was no more novelty in the sight.

“I had some fear for you when I left this place,” Maege admitted once they had moved away. “I did not like leaving you with that husband. You did not kill him on your wedding night, so I let myself hope that he would be a beast that you could manage.”

_I wish he were a beast, so that I might do better at hating him,_ Lyanna remarked privately.

“The past days with him had put my mind at some ease, but I will let you tell me what sort of man he is,” Maege said. She came from a place of concern, but Lyanna had no desire to speak about Arthur, not now, especially when Maege was hoping to hear only good things. Right now, she could speak every foul word about Arthur Dayne, and none of them would be true.

“I will let him show you,” Lyanna returned as politely as she could manage. She thinks she even did a good job of keeping the unhappiness out of her voice. “Were you able to find Dacey?”

The somber conversation shift turned Maege’s smile into a sad one. “Aye,” the woman said with more softness than she’d ever seen her show. “Her body was in no good shape, but it was not burnt. A sword felled her; she must have been fighting alongside her king.”

A sword-- those belonged to Arthur’s troops. One even belonged to Arthur. Even in her fury at him, she did not feel spiteful enough to put Dacey’s death on his blade as well.

“It was an honorable death,” Maege added, her eyes glazed over and fixed on her remaining daughters at play. Those words unwittingly lit a fire inside her.

_What use is honor?_ She wanted to ask. _It does not embrace you. It does not make you laugh or make you cry. Honor is cold, and it is joyless._ The word ‘honor’ only served to remind her of how little she had; she had traded her maidenhead for her name and her life, she gladly bedded the man who killed her brother, and now she carried his child. Yet honor never made her glad, even when she had some semblance of it. It was her brothers who had cared for it, and who took it upon them to protect hers. It was her brothers who died for it, and left her alone, and vulnerable, and alone.

Lyanna tempered her rage long enough to recognize that Maege would not trade honor for a daughter, not truly. If those words were a comfort for her, then let it be so. “I’m sorry, Maege,” she said instead.

Maege shrugged, as if trying to shoulder off her sorrow. “What is done is done. We cannot undo the past, and we are not strong enough for revenge. Not yet.”

Revenge-- the word brought an image of Rhaegar Targaryen to mind. Even simply standing in this courtyard made her think of him, and of the dragons that had circled overhead for days, blocking out the sun and screaming. Their masters had done much of the same, except in relative silence, too busy being glad to have put her so low. Lyanna twisted her hands in her gown. “I will live to see him fall,” she murmured aloud.

“Aye,” Maege said. “Until then, put him to good use. He’s strong enough, speaks little, and you’ll want the company when the babe boils your blood.” Maege gave a short laugh, but Lyanna looked wide-eyed to her, perplexed.

_She thinks I mean Arthur,_ she realized, but too late to correct her. A girl’s scream pierced the air and cut off any attempt to reopen the matter. Lyanna’s blood ran cold as her mind quickly jumped to the conclusion that one of the Mormont girls must have hurt themselves.

When she looked over, she found them blessedly unharmed, though Jorelle sat on the ground crying. “You _said_ I’m next!” She screamed in between hiccuping sobs. The older girls looked guiltily between themselves before casting their sheepish expressions towards their mother.

Maege sighed. “You’ll have this to look forward to, princess,” she said with a wry smile that betrayed more than a little bit of exhaustion. “But there are sweet moments in between, I promise you.” She walked back over to her daughters with her hands on her hips, clearly preparing to scold them. That welcome instinct to fold her hands over her middle returned.

_I would be glad for any moments,_ she thought to herself. _Winter is here. Nothing is promised._

All she wanted was life, and the ability to enjoy it. She wanted morning after morning of this-- of waking up and feeling like she'd been given a purpose, of waking up and feeling anything at all. Even rage was preferable to nothing; she did not want to feel nothing again. 

_If I am angry, I want it to be for you, not because of you,_ she said to her son. _And if I am angry because of you, forgive me. I do not ever want to make you a battleground._

She did not want to pass on her rage. Her child, her son or daughter, deserved better than that. They deserved Brandon's bravery, Ned's gentleness, and Benjen's steadfastness, but not her rage. Whatever was the best of her-- that was what they deserved. But they would already have half her name, the important half. What else did she have to give?

_My love. You will have that in abundance, I promise you._

She could think of nothing better.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Dayne faces peril in Winterfell. Lyanna does what she must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! And thank you so much for your support; I love every comment I get.

Lyanna avoided her husband for the rest of the day; she had no desire to reopen the argument, or even to see his face. That was not a decision she made gladly; it was not easy to forget how pleased she was to see him in her doorway the night before, how quickly she agreed to a kiss and more. Arthur Dayne was as he always had been from the start of their ill-fated marriage: gentle, honest, and eager to please. That had not been a disguise; that was truly what he was. He did not mean to wound her or to upset her.

Yet he also appeared to be remorseless, for he did not even try to see her again. Lyanna had half expected him to appear around every incoming corner, eager to make up with her or make an apology. Perhaps she might even be willing to sit and listen to him, and try it again. Perhaps he would see it her way and let her have the small favor of her son’s name. Or perhaps they would quarrel anew, over and over until one of them acquiesced-- not her, of course, for she’d never lost a fight. But Arthur Dayne did not appear to her-- not in the afternoon, not in the evening, and not even the next morning.

That this had upset her at all proved how foreign her pregnant self had become to her. Her child had molded her heart into a tender thing, making her quick to tears and quicker to anger. Put that way, it felt as if her child had turned her into a child, pouting and teary-eyed and enraged at this bout of silence and cruel rebuff. Only this time, she would not make her frustration so obvious. She avoided his chambers and took off straight for her solar; Beron and Vayon were expecting her. Arthur would have to be the last thing on her mind.

When she arrived at her solar, fists and jaw clenched, she found a third guest in Maester Luwin. The kindly man bowed to her, his hands ever hidden in his sleeves. He bore a grave expression that she had only seen when he had treated the sickest of patients in the winter town, the same expression he gave right before he prepared for an amputation. It made her ire melt away, replaced with cold fear.

“What brings you here, Maester?” Lyanna asked, trying to keep her voice even. She folded her hands over her belly and quickly tried to think back to when she last felt him move. The Maester would have no way of knowing her babe’s health, and yet through his expression she feared for it all the same.

“Lord Dayne has fallen ill,” the Maester reported as Lyanna’s heart dropped into her stomach. “It appears that the cold and the journey had caught up to him.”

“When did this start?” She asked, the words strung quickly together, trying to outpace her own heartbeat. 

“Midday yesterday, your grace. He has been bedridden with fever since.”

“Why did no one tell me?”

“I did not know until early this morning; his sister told me that he did not want you to know.”

Lyanna paused to consider the foolishness in such a command. It was a man’s foolishness, that much was certain. “You are treating him, aren’t you?” She asked.

The Maester nodded. “I have given him something for the fever, but it goes strong. It seems he grew weak very quickly.”

She had a hard time imagining Arthur as weak. A man like him seemed impossible to fell; but then, she had once thought the same of Brandon.  _ If it is as grave as the Maester claims, then what can I do? Nothing. He is at the mercy of the gods. _ It did not matter to her if he was ill, or dying, or worse. At least, that was what she told herself.

“Thank you, Maester,” Lyanna said, proud of herself for keeping any emotion out of her voice. She did not care, she did not care. “I know you will do what you can for him.”

Maester Luwin stood still, as if waiting for something. When nothing arrived, he offered a bow and exited the solar. This left Lyanna with Beron and Vayon, and no chance to stop and mull this new information over. She had told herself Arthur would be the very last thing on her mind, and despite this interruption, she would attend to her matters first. Yet there was a fluttering anxiety deep within her, teetering on the edge of making itself terribly known.  _ First, I thought the northmen would kill him. Then, I thought a storm would. I did not think of this. _

“I am hardly surprised,” Beron’s droning voice cut through her thoughts. “He has never known cold like a northern winter. It was bound to get to him.”

“He spent three moons turns almost entirely out in the cold,” Lyanna pointed out in his defense.

“As did your other men, but they fare well,” Beron noted with a shrug. “No matter. He has performed his purpose.”

_ Has he? _

The question plagued her for the rest of meeting. Whatever Beron had been attempting to relay to her that morning had gone largely unheard. What was Arthur’s purpose here? It seemed to her ever-changing. He had begun as a tool meant to subjugate her, became the winter town’s commander, was set to the purpose of making a child with her, then sent away on a progress on her behalf. Throughout it all, he obeyed, kept silent his reservations, and remained honest and gentle and true.

Would this be his end? Did have no other role? Did Lyanna have no need of him?

_ I do not need him,  _ she told herself.  _ There is nothing that he has done that I could not do myself; but he was here, and he was willing, and he was able. _

But then what of their child? A son, a daughter, whatever it would be, would be fatherless. She had considered the prospect before, and pitied the child for it. While it was true that her father’s love turned cold and commanding as she grew older, she knew that he had loved her, and that had always brought her comfort. She had never felt safer than in her father’s arms. Yet Arthur’s love was obvious from now, discernible only by looking at his face and listening to how soft his voice turned when he spoke of their child. It did not matter what grudge Lyanna held against him; it felt a shame to deprive her child of a love like that. She would endure him, and so much more, if it meant she could raised a loved and happy child.

She could do that now. That was the purpose behind Arthur’s safe return.

_ And the end of Howland Reed’s purpose, _ she came to realize. His purpose in Winterfell had been her secret, with not a soul fully understanding why she had summoned the crannogman here. She wanted it to remain that way; no matter how large her trust in Arthur grew, she could never let him know what she had planned behind his back. Yet it did not seem right to send Howland away in secret; she wanted to see him once more, to thank him for his promise. The thought came with a sudden sense of urgency.

“Beron,” Lyanna said, interrupting whatever it was that her steward had been saying. “Where is Howland Reed?”

Her steward frowned at the sudden change of topic, though it appeared to stump him. He took his time thinking before answering. “I don’t know, your grace.”

She tried to think on when she’d last seen him. He had taken to laying low during his stay, apt as he was in deflecting attention away from himself. He had been her shadow, appearing to her when he needed her, but staying out of sight when she did not. Yet now, she had the sudden feeling that he was not here, that he had left Winterfell without telling her. He was right to do so; winter had come, and Lyanna did not want to explain his presence to Arthur.

“Excuse me, Lord Poole,” Lyanna said as she rose from her seat. “We must continue this another time.”

Her steward offered no argument; instead, he sighed, shuffled the papers in his hands, and nodded as she swept past him. Where Lyanna was headed, she was not sure. She stepped out to the courtyard, which felt larger and emptier as of late. Snow was falling, having already covered the ground beneath her feet. She looked around, searching for someone who was not there. Then she turned on her heel and made for the godswood instead, feeling inexplicably drawn to that place. On her way, she caught Jory Cassel emerging from the stables, the hood of his cloak down, snowflakes already nestling in his hair. When he saw her, he raised a hand to catch her attention, then quickly closed the gap between them.

“Princess,” he breathed, before dropping into a kneel. Lyanna touched his shoulder, and he rose. “It is good to see you again.”

Lyanna silently studied her young captain. His black hair had grown longer, and he sported a new beard. His face was flushed from the cold, but his eyes were bright with life. He did not seem the least bit ill.  _ It is as Beron said-- he is a northman. My husband is not. _

Jory’s smile slipped when she had nothing to say. “Are you alright?” He asked, sounding concerned. He reached across to pull the hood of her cloak up over her head; as he did, she felt something fall into her hair. “You should not be out in this cold.”

Lyanna reached into her hood and ran her fingers through her hair until she came up a roll of paper. It was small, and tied with a green string. Somehow, she knew what it was before she unrolled it.

_ My lady, _ the missive began in small, neat script,  _ I can see that you do not need me anymore. I thought it best to leave as quietly as I came. If you have need of me again, send for me. I am your man. _

There was no signature, but there did not need to be. It was exactly as she had suspected. Though smaller and simpler than Rhaegar’s wax-sealed letter, it felt like more of a shield than that sorry piece of paper ever did. Nevertheless, she would have to burn it. She rolled up the paper once more and hid it in her sleeve.

When she looked back up at Jory, she found him looking quite quizzically at her, concern mixed with an unasked question. But her mind was clearer now, and she took the time to pay honest attention to him.

“Welcome back, Jory,” Lyanna finally said, attempting a small smile.

Her captain nodded slowly. “It is good to be home,” he said, still appearing confused.

“You’re feeling well, aren’t you?” Lyanna asked. She slipped her glove off her hand and touched his cheek. His skin was chilled from the cold. 

“Er— yes, your grace. I feel fine.” His dark brows knitted together. Lyanna withdrew her hand and replaced her glove. It was Jory’s turn to touch her; he took gentle grasp of her elbow. “Perhaps we should head inside?”

“I will. Arthur is ill,” Lyanna murmured, wringing her hands together. “I should see him, at least.”

Jory’s eyes widened. “He’s ill?” He asked, shocked. “With what?”

“Fever, I’m told. From the cold.”

“That is…” The captain trailed off. His gaze had slipped from her as well, fixed to a spot on the snowy ground.

“What? What is it?” Lyanna inquired swiftly. She could never stand unfinished sentences.

“A surprise,” Jory completed. “He had been hardier than all of us.”

The admission did not surprise her as it should. “Perhaps that comes at a cost.”

Jory nodded slowly. “I’ll come with you to see him,” he said. He had begun to lead her indoors when Lyanna asked,

“Why?”

“I owe him that much,” Jory admitted quietly. Lyanna did not press for further details. She let him walk with her to the door of Arthur’s bedchambers, where they both paused to hover outside.

_ What does a warrior look like when he’s fallen? Not in battle, but by the gods. _ Lyanna asked herself before she opened the door.  _ He looks like that. _

Her husband was buried beneath furs and propped up against pillows, asleep. Or so she thought; when she came closer, she heard labored, ragged breaths, painful to listen to. At his bedside sat Ashara, not even pausing in wringing out a compress to look up at her. She pressed it against his forehead, though it seemed now of little use. His other two siblings stood in the corner of the room, as if unsure how to approach their brother.  _ They have never seen him like this, either. _

It seemed with every step Lyanna took towards him, he appeared worse and worse. His chest rose and fell only so slightly; his body appeared small and folded in on itself. A thin layer of sweat gleamed on his skin and darkened his light brown hair where it stuck to his forehead. 

When Lyanna reached his bedside, she pulled her gloves off and stuffed them into the pocket of her cloak. She stared down at him, feeling as if she were suspended in a dream. Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, the bane of many a lord and many a warrior-- here he was, bedridden, barely able to open his eyes, barely able to breathe. When Ashara removed the cloth on his forehead, Lyanna touched his skin there.

“He’s burning,” she remarked, largely to herself. His skin was fire beneath her fingers. “How did he get like this so quick?”

To her surprise, Arthur’s hand reached up and grabbed her wrist. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, voice barely audible. It sounded as if he were spending his last breaths just to say those words. “The babe…”

“You’re sick because of the cold. That will not happen to me,” she reassured him gently before she removed his hand and laid it gently at his side. Lyanna looked around to where Allyria and Ali stood in the corner of the room, then to Jory, where he lingered in the doorway. His gaze was unreadable as it was fixed upon Arthur. When he noticed her looking at him, he seemed to shy away from her gaze, then looked upon the two siblings.

“I… I have some stories about your brother and I,” the captain said with a measure of uncertainty. “Wouldn’t you like to hear them?”

Allyria looked to Ashara, who nodded her permission. Then she took her older brother by the hand and led him away with Jory, who shut the door behind them. Lyanna studied Ashara as she dutifully wrung out the compress again and put it to her brother’s forehead. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her hair, which never had a curl out of place, was unbrushed. 

“Have you been doing this all night?” Lyanna asked. Ashara nodded, but did not look at her, her gaze fixed upon her brother. “Go rest. I can do this.” Lyanna reached for the compress, but was surprised to have it pulled out of reach. Ashara guarded it with an unmistakable glint of suspicion in her eyes. “What? Don’t you trust me?”

Ashara didn’t answer, but continued on in the motions of keeping her brother cool. That was answer enough.  _ She does not trust me.  _ In a different age, Lyanna might have taken the time to make a quarrel with that. She had been alone with Arthur plenty of times, had more opportunities to kill him than she could count. If she had wanted Arthur dead, he would have been long since gone.

Lyanna sat on the edge of the bed and turned her attention instead to the glass bottles on the nightstand. Lyanna picked them up one by one and read the labels. The empty ones had been filled with yarrow, hyssop, and honey, but there was one more that had not been used. It’s white liquid filled a small vial hardly larger than her thumb.

“Milk of the poppy,” Lyanna muttered. She knew the strength of it, of how so little could do so much. In Arthur’s state, he had a better chance of swallowing a few drops of milk of the poppy than he did a whole goblet of the gentler dreamwine. “He would not take it?”

Ashara shook her head. “When the Maester said those words, he spoke just to say that he would not take it.”

“It would help him to sleep,” Lyanna noted.

“He does not want to sleep.”

Lyanna sighed. She turned so that she might look at him again. “You are awake, which means you can hear me,” she murmured. “I did not give you permission to die. You owe me. Do you understand?” Her husband tilted his head ever so slightly toward her, his eyelids fluttering as he tried to open his eyes. “Yes, you. I have not forgotten what you took from me, but you made an oath. When you married me, you gave me your life. You owe me that-- you owe me your whole life, because of what you did. You owe it to me, and now you owe it to the child you’ve put in me. Rob my child of what was promised to him and I will never forgive you for it. Not unless you march through your gods’ seven hells and come back to give me what was owed.” His mouth twitched as if he wanted to speak, but he made no sound. “By that point, I may have already found myself a new husband, one much more handsome than you. You should consider that before you break your oath to me.” She smiled to signify her jest, and she thought she saw Arthur smile too.

The door opened, and a serving girl entered, one unfamiliar to Lyanna. The woman held a basin of water, which she swapped out with the one Ashara had been using. “Freshly melted snow, m’lady,” the woman said. Ashara nodded and continued in her methodical task. The serving girl lingered, however, hovering around Arthur. The expression of concern in her face seemed too genuine for Lyanna’s comfort. Some peculiar instinct in Lyanna urged her to make her presence better known, and she settled her hand on Arthur’s arm.

“His shirt is getting wet, m’lady,” the serving girl continued to address Ashara. “Shall I help you change him again?”

_ Again? _

“Thank you,” Lyanna cut in immediately. “You’ve done enough. You may go.”

The girl paled as she dipped into a low curtsey and scurried off. Lyanna glared after her, even as the door shut behind her. Then she looked back over to Ashara, who had finally deigned her with an expression of mild surprise.

“You do not trust me; that’s fine,” Lyanna said firmly. “But if you need help, you will ask me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ashara seemed to consider that before she relented with a nod. 

 

* * *

 

Ashara could not stay awake forever. While she slept bent forward in her chair, her head on the bed, Lyanna took over the task of cold compresses. In truth, this felt useless. She only felt there was progress made when each time the Maester returned with more yarrow and hyssop. Her husband, who had remained stubbornly awake, needed help to drink the elixirs. She would tilt his head up and pour them past his parted lips, a little bit at a time so that it wouldn’t all be lost on his chin. 

It amazed her, how weak he was. He could not sit up by himself, or drink by himself, or even move his head by himself. The man who had traveled from north to south could not even get up to use the chamberpot, and needed changing whenever his shirt soaked through with sweat so that he would not succumb to chills. 

The fever was stronger than he was. His skin was fire beneath her touch, steady and refusing to be put out.  _ How long can he stay like this?  _ She wondered as she wrung out the compress anew. The water was getting warm; she would need another basin soon.

“My mother died in this bed,” she whispered as she set the cloth to his forehead. “She had a fever too. Your own mother died of an illness as well, did she not? And your father, and my father…” His ragged breaths were his only response. “We deserve better deaths than that-- even you. This doesn’t suit you.”

She caught his hand twitch in the corner of her eye. She covered it with her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I will say what does suit you: that beard. I like it. You should keep it.”

 

* * *

 

His lips are chapped as she puts a goblet of water to them. His fever did not break through the night, and he slept restlessly. Lyanna knew that because she herself slept restlessly, due to her uncomfortable position in the chair beside his bed, the restlessness that had accompanied being with child, and partly due to her own worry. It did not please her as it should to see him fall apart before her eyes. No matter her own rage, he did not deserve this slow torture. Her brothers had swift deaths, at least.

The Maester hovered at the foot of the bed, his concern etched clearly into his wise face. “If the fever does not break this night, he will be lost,” he reported gravely. Ashara, who had been deathly silent for hours, uttered a little whimper. Lyanna looked down at her husband, frail as he was, and refused to believe that was true.

“It will break, Maester,” Lyanna said quietly, and with more confidence than she thought she possessed. “His gods love him.”

They helped him into a bath, where Ashara finally instilled enough trust in her to leave her alone to the task as she saw after her other siblings. It was an odd time to trust her, considering how simple it would be to drown him when he was in such a state. But Lyanna did not make that thought known, lest the haggard woman believe her.

This was a far cry from the night before Arthur had left, where Lyanna’s observation of him in the bath had tempted her with lustful thoughts. This had felt like bathing a child. When she wiped the cloth across his skin she watched him carefully for shivers, tested the water often to be sure it had not gone cold. His hand twitched; she paused to see if the tremor would pass through his whole body.”

“You don’t wear black anymore,” a small, tired voice whispered. Lyanna looked up at her husband. His eyelids were still heavy, but he was looking at her, talking to her.

“No, I do not,” Lyanna confirmed. “I stopped when I learned I was with child. It did not seem right to dress as if I were mourning.”

He mumbled something she could not understand. Lyanna knitted her brows in concentration, but understood nothing. “What?” She asked.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured more clearly. He lifted his hand slowly, as if it were made of lead, and touched his knuckles to her face. 

Lyanna rolled her eyes, but felt her face grow hot all the same. It seemed she was still unused to open compliments. “Save your strength for fighting, not for flattery. My beauty will not break this fever.”

He let out a grunt, through whether it was in agreement or disagreement, she could not say.

 

* * *

 

His fever broke that night. She knew when she woke in the middle of the night and found him utterly still, sound asleep. She thought him dead at first, and in the dark she could not see his chest rise and fall. She hovered a hand over his mouth and felt a breath moisten her palm; then she put that hand on his forehead and felt him warm-- just warm, not ablaze as he was before.

_ Your gods truly do love you, Arthur Dayne. I wonder what sort of death they have planned for you; it was must be a glorious one. I should only be so lucky. _

When Ashara woke at dawn, Lyanna watched as she touched his forehead, buried her face in her hands, and wept. The sight opened a wound deep inside her.

_ I should only be so lucky. _

 

* * *

 

Though the fever broke after two days, it seemed his strength would need more time to return to him. He remained in bed despite his protests that he was feeling better, and despite the fact that it took him considerable effort just to sit up. In the meantime, he had company. Allyria and Ali were permitted back into the room, both of them glad to see him improved, though each in their own way. Allyria was more exuberant, while Ali quietly watched his brother, his gaze never leaving his face.

But there was more than just them-- the southron men, Arthur’s men, paid their respects. Lyanna had not been surprised to see them, though she could not call herself pleased. What did surprise her were the others who visited.

The men that he had traveled with came to see him. Children came to see him. Servants came to see him. Beron came to see him, though he seemed more disappointed than grateful. Even Maege stopped by with her daughters, all three of them smiling broadly in his presence.

“It was just like you said!” Lyra exclaimed enthusiastically. “A sword can’t save you from everything. Even  _ you _ got sick,” she said rather cheerily for such a dismal subject, but Arthur graciously returned her elation with a smile. 

“This was exactly like that,” he admitted as Lyanna wondered what sort of lessons he had taught these girls.

The girls continued to chatter excitedly, debriefing Arthur on what he had missed in the past two days; as they did, Lyanna’s attention was caught by Allyria, who sat to the side, looking rather fascinated by those girls. No doubt they appeared strange to her, with her men’s clothes and weaponry and ringmail-- but more than that, they were girls her age, and of her status. Lyanna smiled at the wide-eyed girl and then looked back to the Mormonts.

“Girls, have you met Allyria?” She asked, nodding to her.

The three Mormont girls paused in her conversation and turned their heads in unison to Allyria. She colored red beneath her bronze skin, but managed a sweet smile.

“Hello,” she said quietly, exhibiting a new shyness that Lyanna had not observed in her before.

“I was giving Allyria riding lessons until I became pregnant. Aren’t you all good riders?”

“I can teach her,” Alysane immediately piped up. “I’m a really good rider.”

“I’m better,” Lyra cut in, sticking her head out farther than her sister. “I can teach you.”

“Can  _ you _ teach us something?” Jorelle asked, eyeing Allyria with more suspicion than she deserved.

“I…” The girl stuttered as she took time to think. “I can teach you how to dance?”

The older Mormont girls fell quiet as they considered this, but Jorelle immediately piped up. “Okay!” She exclaimed. “I want to dance as good as Dacey.”

“Well, run along, then,” Maege said to the girls. “Let Lord Dayne get his rest.”

The girls, Allyria included, shuffled out as they excitedly talked amongst themselves. 

“I did not expect you to best that illness, southron lord,” Maege said once they had left the room. “You are favored by some god, whether it be mine or yours.”

“I am beginning to think its yours,” Arthur remarked wryly. 

“I’m sure they have their reasons. I simply don’t know what they are.” Maege turned to Lyanna and offered a small bow. “I’ll take my leave.”

Lyanna nodded and watched her back as she exited the bedchamber. Just then, she felt it-- her child moved around inside her. She smiled down at her belly.

“It seem it’s his turn to give you his good tidings,” she remarked. 

“I haven’t forgotten about you,” Arthur said to her belly. When she looked back up to him, she found his face bright and full of life. It makes her heart skip. “I’m only glad you can’t see me yet.” He reached out a hand to cover her belly, though she doubted he would feel anything. The touch brought her comfort, as it surely brought her husband. The warmth in his gaze said as much.

“That was kind of you,” Ashara spoke up, reminding Lyanna of her presence. It seemed to her as if Ashara and Ali both had an uncanny ability to pass beneath notice through their silence-- a family trait. “Allyria needed friends.”

“She reminds me of my brother Ned,” Lyanna admitted unthinkingly. “He was shy. Even shier than her. If someone was not thrust upon him, then he’d never know how to become their friend-- and that was with men. With women, he was even--”

She stopped, realizing what she was doing. She never spoke of her brothers out loud, not like this. Not while recognizing that they were dead and gone and she only had memories to relay what they were like. She pressed her lips together and looked down at belly to avoid Ashara’s sympathetic gaze and Arthur’s-- well, she did not look at Arthur, nor did she want to. 

“It was nothing,” Lyanna said quietly. “I’m certain they would have become friends without my help.”

 

* * *

 

Though he was still weak, Lyanna slipped into bed with him that night, only to sleep beside him. It did not seem right to abandon him now at the first sign of wellness. If he needed something, it was unlikely he could get up to fetch it. Her husband did not protest her presence; on the contrary, he seemed glad to have her, if how he stroked her hair was any indication. He would take a tendril and wrap it around his finger much like a child would, as if mesmerized by it. Lyanna simply watched him as he did, her eye still trained for signs of weakness, but instead only capturing how he looked as he fell asleep. His hand slipped from her hair to her face, where he cupped her cheek in his calloused palm. Lyanna reached up to hold his wrist.

“I made a mistake, I think. On our wedding night,” he murmured, half-asleep. His eyes were drooping shut. “I should not have gone to bed with you.” The confession was unexpected, and not one she was prepared to hear. Their wedding night had been something nearly forgotten, that miserable first encounter overshadowed by much fairer events. 

“I told you to,” she pointed out, recalling how he offered to leave her alone that night.

“It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have,” he mumbled. “You were grieving. You hated me.”

“I hate you,” Lyanna corrected. He grunted, another indiscernible noise, and shook off her hand from his wrist so that he could press a kiss to her knuckles. Then he circled an arm around her and pulled her to his chest. Lyanna closed her eyes and wrapped herself around him. She wondered if this was a balm too, if it helped him to regain his strength. Though the worst of the fever had passed, his body was still warm as he pressed against her, his breathing still heavy. She needed him to be stronger than this.

Would it be held against her, she wondered, for helping him like this? For staying at his side, for holding him, in hopes that it would bring him back from the precipice of death, for seeing him back up the mountain and at his peak once more? It would not be understood, least of all by her. She only knew that she would not let her negligence be the reason that her son grew up without a father. If it was within her power, she would do what she must to first keep her child safe, and then to make him happy. Howland Reed had offered her the former when she was alone, but her husband’s life, while at her side, promised both those things.

 

* * *

 

That night, she dreamt of her wedding day, had it happened in a different world. It was only been the two of them before the heart tree, holding hands, as naked as their namedays. Lyanna was not pregnant, her middle flat but marred with pale white marks, and her breasts were swollen with milk. Their lips moved, speaking vows she could not hear over a roaring wind. He had no cloak to wrap her in, and she had no cloak to give up. At the conclusion of their vows, Arthur produced a string of rose stems, the thorns still present. He wrapped it around their clasped hands, and though the thorns dug into their skin and drew blood, there was no pain. 

When Arthur leaned down to kiss her, the wind stopped. They fell onto the grass together, Arthur already between her thighs. When her hand slipped down his chest, it left a bloody handprint behind, dark red against his brown.

Arthur moaned in her ear; she sighed.

She felt nothing but joy.

 

* * *

 

They are alone that morning, which has been a rare thing these past few days. Lyanna was nestled beneath Arthur’s arm, her legs pulled up against her chest. He was feeling bold, which meant he was feeling better, and had hiked her nightgown over her knees. His finger traced a pale scar on the inside of her knee.

“What happened here?” He asked.

“Truthfully, I don’t know,” Lyanna confessed. “I was six or seven. I remember Benjen and I had been playing, and when we came back inside, my knee was all bloody. It was a cut so deep it needed stitching. But I didn’t even feel it when it happened, however it happened.”

“How did your father react?”

“Sternly. As if I had sought out stitches on purpose.”

“And if it were you?”

“What?”

“If our son came to you that way, how would you react?”

Lyanna paused to consider it. “I would be horrified, as if it never happened to me.”

Arthur smiled. “Children get themselves into all sorts of trouble.”

“Don’t remind me. If he is half as troublesome as I was, we will have a trial on our hands.”

Arthur chuckled. The finger on her knee turned into five, and his hand skated up the inside of her thigh, stopping short of her smallclothes. His thumb stroked her skin, up and down. It made her think of that strange dream from last night; his bloodied hand had been on her thigh exactly where it was now, to nudge her legs apart.

“We must be feeling better,” Lyanna remarked with a smile, unable to hide her fondness of his touch.

“The sight of you would bring any man back from the Stranger’s kiss,” Arthur responded rather seriously.

She rolled her eyes, unused to such compliments, but also keenly aware of why he was bold enough to let it slip past his lips. His dark gaze betrayed nothing short of lust, and though Lyanna felt much the same, it was still too soon. “You’ll get no further than this today,” she warned. “I’ll not chance you falling ill after fucking me again.”

Arthur’s cheeks turned a shade of red not unlike fever. “That’s not why I fell ill,” he muttered, embarrassed-- by what, she could not say. 

“No? Was it because you couldn’t bear quarreling with me?”

He had no answer to that. He squeezed the inside of her thigh, eliciting from her a gasp, then removed his hand to place it chastely on her belly instead.  _ The other thing he likes the most about me, _ an unfair voice spoke up. Unfair to him, and unfair to her-- she had only tolerated him so he could fuck her and give her a child, too.

“Did you know that the queen is also with child?” He asked her. Understanding that question was a slow process; the only queens she had ever known were queens in the north. But Arthur was not speaking about a northern queen; he was speaking of their new southron queen, the Lannister woman married to Rhaegar Targaryen.

Lyanna scowled, her mood immediately souring. “I don’t care,” she said petulantly. If Rhaegar had a hundred kids or none, she would not care. He could fuck who he liked and have as many children as liked, so long as he never came near her again. 

“I thought you should know,” Arthur remarked quietly. “Your steward should do better in telling you news from the south.”

“I don’t ask for news from the south, because I don’t want it.”

“There is much to report,” he said, laying down bait that he no doubt hoped she would take. Lyanna would not be tempted.

“If it has nothing to do with me, then I don’t care.”

Arthur went quiet at that, but not cold. His finger idly traced shapes over her belly; an unexpected chill ran down her spine. She wondered how soon it would be before he gathered his full strength again. She wanted his company in bed again, and for those skillful fingers to be put to good use. 

“I choose this, you know,” Arthur murmured, though his gaze never broke from her middle, “the North.”

Lyanna furrowed her brows and waited for further explanation, but none came. That was her husband’s most frustrating aspect, she decided; he rarely offered information freely. Rather, it had to be coaxed out of him.

“What do you mean?” She asked, too curious to let this pass.

“Long before the Trident, Rhaegar asked me if I would be his Hand once he was king.” Perhaps remembering that the word “Hand” meant nothing to her, he added, “The Hand of the King is the king’s highest advisor, second only to the king himself. It’s an office Rhaegar created with me in mind. I refused it when he first offered it to me.”

“Why?” Lyanna asked automatically. She could understand if it was because he did not want glory or power, but the responsibility seemed suited to his skills, and he loved Rhaegar. 

“I’m a warrior; I was not made for politics. Had he asked me to join his guard, I would have done so, even if it meant giving up marriage and having children of my own. But he offered for me to be his Hand, which meant I could marry, have children. I did not want to split my time between that and a position in King’s Landing. It was one, or the other. Now you…” He finally pulled his gaze up to her face. “You were not part of my plan, or any plan. Not at first. After the Trident, Rhaegar asked me to marry you. It was not a choice at first, not truly. Perhaps it was meant to push me toward being Hand-- but now I have chosen this.” His hand moved down to the underside of her belly. “I would not trade this for the south. I would not want to miss this.”

Lyanna tried to imagine it-- Arthur gone for half the year, perhaps more, doing his duty in King’s Landing at his brother’s side. Her first thought is one of disappointment-- it would be much easier to bear his presence if she saw so little of him. It would be easier to hate a man who left her to serve the king who killed her brothers, who killed a brother himself, and who returned to the North only to make children with her. Not raise children, or watch them grow, or support her, or even practice as the Lord of Winterfell. Oh, she would have hated a man like that easily. She would have wanted him dead every time he returned.

But then her disappointment slipped through her fingers and she found herself relieved. Perhaps that was all true, and while she hated him still, she hated him for fewer reasons now than she did when they first wed. He was not slothful, he was not unkind, he was not cruel, and he was true to his word. He had proven himself a gentle husband, made clear his desire to be a good father, and he was devoted-- to her, to their unborn child, to the north. Could she have seen that in him if he disappeared for moons at a time?

She couldn’t say, because she didn’t know. She had yet to make sense of anything that had passed between them. When she thought on it too long, she turned away, not ready for the naked truth. It was easier to say she was doing it for their child, to give him some semblance of normalcy and stability. A mother and father who worked together and got along seemed a good way to raise children. 

“He still has not filled the position,” Arthur added quietly, after her long silence. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” the word slips off her tongue before she could catch it. She quickly looked away from him and laid her head on his chest. “I do not trust you to be so far away,” she mumbled, “lest he poison you against me, or you find yourself another woman.”

“Why would either of those things happen?” He asked; there was a smile in his voice she did not care to see.

“I already said, I do not trust you.”

The petulance in her voice shone through, and he laughed. She felt his lips brush against her forehead, his beard scratch her skin. She hates that it’s a comforting feeling, but cannot hate how safe she felt in his arms, showered with his affection. Never had she thought marriage could be so gentle, or that she could find a man who made her feel safe that wasn’t her brothers. There was no fear with him, for he had given her no reason to have fear.

Perhaps her brothers could be pleased with that. They had loved her; they would not have wanted to see her afraid, when they could not be there to reassure her.

A knock came at the door. Lyanna pulled away from her husband’s embrace, and slipped out of his bed, mindful of appearances, even now. It did not matter who was behind that door. There was no room for public affection in their marriage. She felt her husband looking at her as she pulled a robe on. When she met his gaze, she found it soft and forgiving.

_ The war ended for you, Arthur Dayne. It did not end for me, _ she wanted to say aloud, but it seemed he knew without his hearing it. Instead, Lyanna silently nodded towards the door.

“Come in,” her husband commanded.


End file.
